To Build a Home
by xRainyDaysxx
Summary: *Sequel to Holding On and Letting Go.* The world has been a mess for roughly a year and River Parks is starting to realize that it is not getting cleaned up any time soon.
1. Prologue

**Annndddd we're back! **

**Let's get to it, shall we?**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

_"This is a place where I don't feel alone._

_ This is a place where I feel at home." _

_~ The Cinematic Orchestra: To Build a Home_

* * *

_Prologue:_

The man paces back in forth between these four walls, the heels of his boots clicking on the hard floor with each step. The sound echoes, bounces, until it is swallowed up. I watch his worn boots as he goes; my blood-filled mouth is open as labored breaths of air travel in and out of it. My face stings, my eyes feel wet, and a blood droplet falls down from my cheek and stains the floor.

The boots still and so does my heart for a moment, but I refuse to look up. You would think someone would want to know what their killer looks like, but no, not me. This man doesn't deserve any words from my lips, much less my eyes.

"We're done playing games." he says, but I don't think I am. I'm pretty sure I could go for another round of hide and seek. I hide the information everyone is so desperately searching for and they try to seek it – drag it out of me – little do they know I'll never tell . . .

The boots are back to moving and this time they come for me. His shadow looms over my crumpled form, swallowing me up like this room swallows his footfalls after a brief hesitation. His fingers find my chin and they force my stiff head up.

I stare death in the face, green on green, and then the man opens his mouth to speak once more, "Now, you're gonna give up where your camp's at."

My eyes move over his shoulder to the two people behind him – _his people –_ with their smug looks and deadly weapons. They would die for this man right here, I know that, and I will die for my family back home, too.

Lazily, my gaze slides back over to the person gripping me with his cold stare. "No can do . . . _mister."_ I spit, my tongue gliding over the blood that has settled in my mouth and I taste the metallic liquid there.

He lets go of me, backs up a few feet, and then his gun is out; a shiny revolver. Quickly, he takes three strides forward and closes the distance between us. The revolver presses against my forehead, it feels cool against my burning skin, and I realize that this is the first time I've ever looked down the barrel of a fully loaded gun.

The gun clicks. "So unwise . . ." the man mutters to me.

This is where I will die.

I will die in a smothering room with a man I don't know and in a place I'm unfamiliar with. Bruised and bloody, I will go out quickly like turning off a light. _Alone _– I will die alone even though there are others in here with me.

You always face death alone.

I think about my family back at that safe haven I never gave up as the man pulls the trigger.

* * *

**The Last of Us soundtrack causes me to write stuff like this, I'm sorry.**

**I know this wasn't very home-like – such as the title of this fanfic expresses – but it was just a little preview of what's to come.**

**It'll all make sense in time.**

**~ Rainy**


	2. Chapter 1: How It Is

**Didn't expect to have this done so quickly, but hey, it's here.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 1: How It Is

* * *

**EIGHT MONTHS LATER**

* * *

_"One . . . two . . ."_

We found a house – we've found lots of houses before – but this one is old and rotting. The white double doors we're crouched near are chipped and peeling, the stone porch steps are loose and wobbly, and the yard is trashed.

But as I reach back and fish an arrow out of my quiver to load into my bow, I'm not degrading this place. If anything, I'll take it – better than sleeping in whatever car it's my turn to hunker down in. We've been doing that for days now, maybe even a week; whenever we got kicked out of our last place. Doesn't matter, though – every building we stay at looks the same. Dull and boring, it all runs together.

The vehicles are the closest thing to a home right now.

_"Three."_

With a grunt, Rick kicks both of the doors and they bust open to reveal two walkers standing in the hallway, blank-minded. The first one is dispatched of quickly, an easy shot to the head from Rick's gun; the silencer doing its job nicely. T-dog is next in line and he jabs his iron fireplace poker through its forehead, breaking a window in the process, and the body falls down with the glass.

Daryl, Carl, and I advance into the house after Rick and T-dog, bows and gun raised and ready to fire. Brushing past the bodies, Carl and I go our separate ways while I stick with Daryl. My foot lands in some blood as I go past one of the crumpled dead walkers and it squishes under my sole – _whatever. _

Daryl and I enter a musty smelling room to the right of the entranceway. The floors, walls, and ceiling are covered in wood paneling, which I think is kind of ugly. I pick up on a moan and my eyes tear away from the wood to the geek standing in the middle of this room, looking as dazed as his buddy's did.

Moving over to the side of the doorway, Daryl doesn't aim at the hungry freak. Instead, a quick glance is shared between the two of us and then I know what he wants me to do, and I gotta do it. Stepping forward, I try to the best of my ability to creep up on the walker like Daryl showed one cold day he took me out hunting. My fingers are exposed by my fingerless, black leather gloves and they clutch my bow tightly as I line the weapon up with the walker's head. The bow I'm holding isn't a crossbow like Daryl's – more of a beginner bow – but it is still deadly, nonetheless.

_Breathe. _My heart is pounding, my arms are shaking; I'm still new to this whole killing-quietly concept.

_Breathe. _That's what Daryl always tells me because I'm too tense.

_Breathe. Relax._

Letting out a whoosh of air, I release the arrow and it flies into the biter's skull, making it fall to the hard floor with a gurgle.

I glance at Daryl, he nods with a little brightness added to his face, and then he simply reaches out a hand to pat me on the back.

_"You did good, kid." _that's what he would say, but we don't talk here. We can't.

I know the drill so after quickly sliding my arrow out of the monster I just put down; I'm searching the little room for supplies. We're desperate at this point so anything will do, really. While scavenging I quickly come to terms on what this room exactly was. A cracked TV leans against one of the walls, a ripped, worn sofa is positioned in front of it, and between the two sits a shattered coffee table – this was the living room.

A living room that has nothing that we can use . . . _figures._

That's the usual, isn't it?

A low whistle attracts my attention, then, and Daryl is pointing where a door sits at the other end of the room. I hadn't noticed this door before, perhaps a closest, and I already got another arrow loaded before he can move another inch. Slowly advancing forward, one step at a time, thinking about each time you place your foot down, weapon aimed – that's how you survive now. We're at the door, I'm focused, and just as I'm reminding myself to breathe, the door flies open. My breath hitches in my throat, there is a bright light shining in my face, and then I register who it is.

Friend, family, leader – _Rick. _

_It's just Rick. _

All of our hearts slow as the three of us have the same realization and weapons lower. The light in my face is Rick's flashlight and that is flicked down shortly after the bows and gun. Eyes meet, nods exchange, and then we are moving on. That's the thing about scavenging in a new place like this one. You have to be quick but silent. Everything is precise.

Daryl and me meet T-dog out in the hall and my nose takes note that this whole house smells mildewy, not just the wood panel room.

T-dog gestures up with his fireplace poker he's really taken a liking to the past few weeks. He whispers, _"Upstairs."_

Daryl begins to close in on the staircase and I go to follow because that's my job, but the man turns, mutters, "Stay here."

This pulls me up short. "But – "

_"No." _And I get that low, serious tone with the pointed glare and I know – _oh, I know –_ that I best listen.

So I do. I bite my tongue, hold my breath, and watch as T-dog and Daryl bound up the creaky steps. Sighing, I drop the arm holding my bow limply down to my side – examine this broken-down house. It's always the same old shit. Always because I'm thirteen, because it's dangerous, because I'm still learning, because they're scared – excuses, excuses.

Excuses can only protect me for so long.

* * *

By the time the two people who were upstairs make it back down, Rick, Carl, Glenn, and Maggie have joined me in the main entranceway. Daryl comes down picking at a lifeless owl – probably the most valuable thing in this building – and one owl vs. eleven people . . . the odds aren't that great. Some of us will eat while others go hungry, it is what it is. Rick leans out the open front doors, whistling a melody only my family knows, and then the rest of us appear.

Carol and Beth come in first, they both look tired, and Carol hands me my backpack as she passes; it goes over my shoulder with my quiver. A heavily pregnant Lori is next and she looks like she's about to pop any day now, and I know I should be happy, but I can't seem to get myself up that way. Hershel is last and then Rick is shutting the doors, they close with a groan.

We all meet up in a room with peeling walls and I take my usual seat next to my other partner in crime, Carl. Over the course of the past eight months I have allowed myself to consider the boy with the Sheriff hat my friend and it is nice to have someone my age around, I suppose. Setting my bow down in my lap, I watch the owl's feathers fall from the chair Daryl is sitting in as he continues to pick at it. Carl nudges me and my brain decides the owl isn't that important anymore as he pushes a can of dog food into my hand.

Normally, I would never think of it but it's gotten to the point where munching on dog food doesn't sound all that bad right now. Carl has his own can and my green eyes stare at him as he proceeds to pry it open with his knife.

Footsteps then approach and as a shadow looms over the both of us, I look up to see Rick staring down at the cans – a look on his face I can't quite explain. Bending down, he snatches the faded, yellow cans up and without a moment of hesitation, our leader chucks them at the fireplace. I flinch as contact is made, the metal of the cans clattering against stone.

I guess we're not going there today.

This room is awfully quiet and stiff. I'm so damn tired – I guess I'm hungry, too – and this horribly smelling house is enough to give me a headache. Daryl and I could go hunting before it gets dark. I'm still learning, but we could at least try to catch something so –

_"Psst!" _that's T-dog, he's by the window. The man is up now, face pulled tight and serious, and I look through the glass to see what he's seeing.

Shit.

Walkers. A whole group of them, actually. Not a whole big herd, no, but enough that it isn't worth trying to fight through.

T-dog gave the cue, now it's time to follow the drill.

Get up, grab your stuff, and get the hell out.

Jogging out the back door, Daryl leads while Rick brings up the rear – same old, same old. The geeks are quickly closing in and I toss my backpack, bow, quiver – all of it – into the open trunk of the green car while passing. There is no time to put my stuff where it belongs. My good feet continue going fast until I reach Daryl's motorcycle. He's already got it up and running, just waiting for me, and as I sling a leg over the seat he glances back, asking,

"You good?"

"I'm good."

And that's all he needs to hear before he kicks the bike into action, taking off down the street.

Because this is how it is now.

* * *

**So, was that okay?**

**~ Rainy**


	3. Chapter 2: Home

**To answer a question someone had: the last chapter was short because it was setting the stage and showing how the group has changed in the past eight months.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 2: Home

Deep into the winter months – when fresh snow blanketed the ground and group members began to fall ill from the freezing atmosphere – was around the time I called Daryl _Dad. _It was an accident, the simple word escaped from my lips possibly because I was drowsy on cold medicine Glenn stumbled upon at a heavily looted drug store, or equally important, because Dad and Daryl both start the same way. Whatever it was that dared the three letter word to enter my mind while I laid under three blankets – boiling hot yet ice cold at the same time – left me panicked, nonetheless.

Dad is a word I don't take lightly and even though Daryl had told me it was alright time and time again because I was protected under the excuses, the memories that had been buried deep down inside me sprouted up like a flower. And as the sickness spreading throughout the group wore on, I fell into a sadness – a – a depression of some sorts. Between reliving my old life and constantly sensing the fear in everyone else because colds are a lot more terrifying than they used to be, I slipped into the darkness. No longer could I find my comfort, my sunshine, because the days were shorter and even when there was light I found it to be still dull.

But I got through it, we all did, and I haven't felt that demanding sorrow since.

I guess that's why I kept it locked away from everyone, Daryl included – keep telling myself that . . .

Now, though, the days are slowly becoming longer again as spring creeps up on us and warms our souls. There are times when it is cold, such as early mornings and late nights, but other than that I can still find the warmth. In fact, the warmth is here right now as Daryl and I cruise down another broken road – the others following closely behind in their vehicles. I don't like motorcycles because I'm afraid of falling off, and even Daryl knows this. There are no seatbelts, no helmets – just the air and concrete to catch you when you lose your balance. But why I continue to ride one while we're on the run, I can't say, it's just something about the freedom it carries that my teenager self enjoys.

Since I am afraid of falling, I find it best to bury my head into Daryl's angel wing vest – which is what I'm doing now – and only lift it when I feel comfortable enough. The wind is whipping my hair around, whistling in my ears, and I have Daryl's poncho – which is actually some horse blanket he picked up when we slept in a barn – thrown over my shoulders because freedom is cold, believe it or not. The pounding force of air lets up for a second as the bike is slowed. Lifting my head, I can hear the faint rumble of the motorcycle as we take a tight turn. There are walkers here and another fear I have of riding on a motorcycle is getting grabbed, so my head quickly retreats back down.

Moving a hand off of a handlebar, Daryl covers one of his hands with both of mine that are wrapped around him – squeezes.

It's good to have people around.

* * *

We don't travel much longer until a horn is beeped and it's time to stop again.

There is no house this time, just trees for miles, and I know that this is only a minor pit stop so we can regroup; figure something out. Jumping off the bike, everyone else is either flowing out of the silver pickup, red car, or green car – car doors slamming closed after them. I quickly get to the green car, which is to my right, open the trunk, and grab my bow – leave the other stuff for now. I then slip Daryl's bright colored poncho off over my head because it isn't breezy anymore and hand it back to him.

"You don't want it?" he questions after the object is back into his possession. I watch as he unhooks the crossbow from the motorcycle that was once his brother's.

I shake my head. "Nah. I'm good for now."

"Alright . . . y'all geared up?"

Pausing, I double check. My bow, my quiver, the gun tucked into my waistband, got a knife in my holster, another in my right boot – everything is there. "Yep."

Daryl nods. "Good." And then it's time for me to get with my partner so we can take our post, so turning away, I jog up ahead to where Carl and Rick are standing – bow in hand.

Rick examines the surrounding area before he turns to Carl and me, barely making eye contact. "_Fifteen – _you're on point." We both give a quick and simple nod because we got this, Carl and I do. His gun is out, silencer on, and my bow is ready and loaded with an arrow.

I watch my side of the road and he watches his, T-dog starts the conversation at the green car; they most likely have that faded map of Georgia spread across the hood. "We've got no place left to go."

We've just been going around and around in circles all fall and winter, I'm tired and dizzy.

They discuss the herd topic and we have seen plenty of those around. Herds joining herds, water, towns – that's all I hear before I block out the same group discussion I have listened to too many times to count. A grey squirrel scampers out from the underbrush and onto the road, then. I stare at it, think about shooting the creature because my stomach is growling, but then the meeting is over so I let it go. Taking a quick glance over my shoulder, I notice people walking away – I have no idea what the plan is.

"What's – "

"My dad and Daryl are going hunting," Carl answers, still in watch stance, and I guess he's used to me tuning out group meetings now. I start to feel bummed because I wanted to go hunting, but then I remember I'm on watch and still got a good twelve minutes left. Rick said fifteen, didn't he? _Yeah. _"The others went down to the creek for water. We're gonna double back to some place."

I readjust the bow in my arms, roll a shoulder. The squirrel is long gone now. "No use. We've been all over state."

"They said it's some place we haven't gone yet." The boy turns to me and I realize he's a few inches taller than me, now. We used to be about the same height . . . "I don't know . . ." Carl sighs, shaking his head. "Maybe we should try somewhere else – Florida or something."

I bite my lip. "I've never been out of state before." I speak hesitantly and honestly, Georgia has become a safety blanket for me; some place I don't think I am ready to leave.

_"Really?"_

"Positive." I flick his hat, getting back on track. "C'mon, Sheriff, we still have ten minutes left."

* * *

Truthful to his word, Rick and Daryl return ten minutes later – but they don't have any game. The others trudge up the hill carrying jugs of water and as those are placed in the bed of the silver pickup; our leader reveals some news to us.

_Good news._

Out on the hunt, he and Daryl found something.

They found a prison.

* * *

The walk to the prison is short. We go through the woods a bit, take down a few walkers, scamper down a little hill into a valley, and walk over a wooden bridge to get across a lake – no big deal.

But then the prison itself comes into view and it becomes a bigger deal. The place is made out of gray, sturdy concrete; locked up safe and secure by metal bars. Tall, chain-link fences line the perimeter, there are guard towers in a huge field for lookout, a courtyard – this is bigger than any building we've ever stayed at before.

The only problem is the prison is overrun and as Rick cuts the fence open with red bolt cutters, they are getting riled up. Although most of the walkers are inside the fences, there are a few straggles outside and one of them with straw-like hair stumbles up to us, snarling. I aim my bow, ready to go, but Glenn and Maggie take control – he pins it to the fence with a long gardening tool and she smacks the geek in the head with a hammer, ending it.

"Watch the backside!" T-dog warns over all of the commotion and we have formed some kind of clump now. I spin around, my slightly shaky fingers holding the arrow in place – I got it, alright. Alright, alright, alright; let's do this.

Rick's got the fence all cut now and him and Daryl hold it open like a door. We step through the opening one at a time, quick and cautious. T-dog is the last one and then Daryl and Glenn are hurriedly tying the gap together with orange wire before any walkers can get close. I'm on high alert now, twisting and turning – looking all around. We're in some kind of gravel walkway, fences on either side. The field is to the left and where we just came through is on my right. Now that we are closer I notice that the walkers in the field all have blue, sun-bleached jumpers on, while the ones outside the fences are dressed in more ordinary clothes. _Prisoners._

The biters start to notice the fresh meat placed in front of them, then, and they pounce onto the surrounding fences, clawing and licking at the wire. I grimace at them, squinting because the sun shines bright here, and then we are running down the gravel path at a collected pace. Over time, I have become one of the fastest so I find myself right up there with Rick, Glenn, and Daryl – leading the pack. Around a corner and through a medium sized gate we go, before my feet slow so my lungs can take a break. The gravel path has turned into a rectangle and there is a guard tower here, too, providing some nice blockage from the sun.

Rick kneels down, shrugs off his bag, and walks right up to fence; observing what's beyond it. "It's perfect . . ." he pants, and in a normal world it would never be because this is a place bad people go, but in this world right here and now it is truly _perfect. _Our leader points to an open gate across the way. "If we can shut that gate, prevent more from filling the yard, we can pick off these walkers." He has to talk loud because the walkers followed us over here. They are starving. "We'll take the field by tonight."

Hershel steps forward, "So how do we shut the gate?"

Glenn volunteers to do it and even though he doesn't do as much as he used to, it still gives me the feeling that someone else should complete the task or at least help him. Maggie says no, though, the plan is a suicide mission and sneaking a peek at the yard, it kind of is.

"I'm the fastest," Glenn argues, holding his shovel in one hand. He's the fastest male. If they wanted a female to do it, it would be me because I'm the fastest of that gender. But until I get older and better, I'll stick with being the fastest girl instead of overall.

But Rick declines Glenn's offer, takes control – he's good at that. Maggie, Beth, T-dog, and Glenn will take the fence and draw as many walkers as they can over there, stab them through the chain-link. Daryl, Carol, and I are taking the tower further back by we came in; Carl and Hershel get the one right here. Rick will be the one to run for the gate, good call.

We're going to do this, my family and I, and I'm ready.

Carol, Daryl, and I – the three of us – we quickly jog down to the tower after Carol grabs a gun. I am the first one in, it's dark inside but clear of walkers, and then I'm bolting up the stairs; the other two close behind. Reaching the top there is a red, heavy door just like the one at the bottom and pushing that open, it is a breath of fresh air – like surfacing after being underwater for a while. The view is surprisingly great, and I have a clear view of all of the walkers and then some.

We position ourselves. Daryl stands to my right and Carol to my left. I get my bow ready, arrows all situated, and then I glance over to the next tower to see Hershel and Carl aiming at the field down below. Beth, Maggie, T-dog, and Glenn are down banging on the fence – I can hear their hollers from here, watch as Glenn stabs the first one right in the eye with a dagger. Rick and Lori are by the gate. I can just make them out from here, and they share a look before she slides the metal back, her husband slipping through.

There is an overturned bus right in front of the gate so that conceals Rick for a few moments before he makes run for it, gun aimed while another one – a rifle – sits on his back. Just as Rick pulls the trigger and his first walker falls, the shot concealed by the silencer, Daryl asks,

"Ready?"

Deep breath. "Ready."

I line my arrow up with a geek of my choosing because it's all about good timing and good instincts. Letting the arrow fly, it slices right through the thing's head – ending it. I pull back, blow out of my mouth, and I'm completely focused now.

Carol almost hits Rick by accident and he scurries back, dancing around the bullet. I bullseye two more freaks.

But then I'm getting low on ammo so I put the bow down, toss away being quiet, and take out my handgun. Everyone else is shooting, the gunshots hurting my ears, and I now understand why people wear headphones at ranges. We don't have that luxury here, though. Firing a gun is not as new to me as shooting a bow is so I feel more in charge. Killing becomes easy, easy becomes fun like a game, and maybe that is a bad sign, but who knows?

Rick reaches the target, kicks a walker back trying to grab at him, and closes the gate shut – locking it. Turning, the man runs to the tower near the gate, fires off some more shots, and disappears inside.

"He did it." says Carol as we pause for a moment.

Daryl cups his hand over his mouth, shouts, "Light it up!"

So we do.

And, damn, does it feel good.

* * *

Daryl, Carol, and I meet Hershel and Carl down in the rectangle at the bottom of their tower. Carol is smiling, looking happier than I've seen her in a while, and she exclaims as she steps over a dead walker, "Fantastic!"

My arms are sore, my ears have a faint ringing stuck in them, but hey, I'm sure not complaining.

Daryl touches my head. "Nice shootin'." And I grin because he taught me most of it.

Carl and I exchange a smile and then the five of us are passing Lori who is holding open the gate she let Rick through. Carol asks is she's okay and the woman's face brightens, "Haven't felt this good in weeks," Days, weeks, months – nothing can quite compare to this joy.

The smile is still plastered on my face as I pass Lori and trudge into the field – _our field. _We did it, we cleared it out, and it's ours; this whole place is.

_Ours._

_Safe._

Our field is littered with bodies, but who cares? Not me.

"Oh!" Carol moans as we venture further into what we won, taking it all in. She starts to jog, laughing, "We haven't had this much space since the farm!"

There are dark memories at the farm but I won't let myself pull me down there. Instead, I hold out my arms, breathe in the fresh air, and look up at the blue sky and puffy clouds that for once make me feel the way they're supposed to. My insides are buzzing.

The others have joined the five of us, filtering in behind, and I don't even realize that we got a live biter until I turn to see Glenn shoving his dagger into its skull.

T-dog chuckles, throwing up his arms, _"Whoooooo!"_

We haven't had one of these days in a very long time.

* * *

Without a doubt, the best part of the day was definitely getting to go hunting with Daryl.

This place is like a gold mine for squirrels and we caught about six, which was plenty. Daryl shot three and I shot three – even-Steven.

We also moved the vehicles up to the main gates and I'm glad that they don't have to play house anymore. Now, as I lay on my back it is night and I'm using my backpack as a pillow. We are all scattered around the fire we created in our field and I'm wrapped up in my jacket because it gets chilly at night. And as I gaze up at the stars, my stomach is content, my body is warm, and I feel safe.

"Mmm. Just like mom used to make." I hear Glenn murmur. I close my eyes.

There is a tap on my shoulder and I open my eyes to see Carl lying down on his back next to me, looking up.

The boy points, talks softly, "Big Dipper."

A grin spreads across my face as the memory comes back.

"I couldn't find it for a while," he continues, "but I got it now."

"Yeah?" I ask.

_"Yeah . . . _Did you know it used to be called the Drinking Gourd?"

I stretch my arms back, the grin is still there. _He remembers. _"No. I was more of a math person."

And that's when we look at each other, I realize he's grinning, too, and we both chuckle.

"Liar." Carl says when the snickers die down.

"You're telling me . . ."

"That's his third time around," I hear Hershel comment, then, and I roll over because the mood is serious again. "If there was any part of it compromised, he'd have found it by now."

He's talking about Rick, that's what, and I know it right away. Glancing back, I see our leader strolling beside the fence, getting the walkers' attention that are in the courtyard. He always does this, been doing it since after the farm – he paces and paces and paces, and I don't know why. Ever since the shift things have been . . . _different. _Sometimes he shuts us out, I witness him do it a lot to Lori, and I worry about him.

But at the end of the day, I know he just wants what is best for _us_ and he is protecting _us._

Beth tells Lori that this will be a good place to have the baby safe and the woman pulls her lips up into another one of those tight smiles. Hershel asks Beth to sing a song he hasn't heard since her mother died. Maggie says not that one, please, and then the old man suggests some song titled: "The Parting Glass". I've never heard of it, Carl and I lie down on our stomachs, and Beth says that no one wants to hear.

"Why not?" Glenn asks, looking at her sheepishly with his knees pulled to his chest and yeah, why not?

Beth looks around. She appears nervous but I don't know why – not like having a good voice matters much anymore. "Okay."

And a beat later, she starts, the crickets politely quieting down for her,

_"Of all the money that e'er I had,_

_I spent it in good company._

_And all the harm e'er I've ever done. _

_Alas it was to none but me._

_And all I've done for want of wit._

_To memory now I can't recall._

_So fill to me the parting glass._

_Goodnight and joy be with you all."_

The song is different, quiet, and I'm not sure whether I like it or not. I mean, it's not terrible just not my style. I'm more of a rock 'n roll type of girl. Daryl and Carol approach, they were on the bus keeping watch and such, and Rick then appears beside Carl – crouched low. Maggie joins in with her sister and although I don't listen to the lyrics anymore, I still catch onto the soothing tune as my eyes stare into the fire and my teeth chew on my thumb.

Rick picks up a bowl of food and it gains my attention because I never see him eat anymore; I mean, I'm sure he does I just never see him do it. He offers some of the meat to Carl, Lori, before he reaches in and takes a bite. The song is over, now, and Hershel describes it in one word,

"_Beautiful."_

"Better all turn in," Rick says, shifting, and I don't let go of my thumb. He nods to some place across the way. "I'll take watch over there, got a big day tomorrow."

Big day? What are we doing tomorrow?

Glenn wrinkles his face from on the other side of the fire. Maggie has her head on his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

Rick looks down for a moment; he's playing with a blade of grass. "Look, I know we're all exhausted. This was a great win. But we've gotta push just a little bit more."

I don't know if I can . . .

"Most of the walkers are dressed as guards and prisoners, looks like this place fell pretty early. It could mean the supplies may be intact. They'd have an infirmary, a commissary."

"An armory?" questions Daryl, holding his crossbow strap.

"That would be outside the prison itself, but not too far away. Warden's office would have info on the location . . . Weapons, food, medicine. This place could be a _gold mine."_

"We're dangerously low on ammo." Hershel reminds him. "We'd run out before we make a dent."

That's why we have to rest, take it easy, regroup – it's been a brutal and rough eight months.

"That's why we have to go in there . . . _hand-to-hand."_

I don't like the sound of that.

"After all we've been through, we can handle it, I know it." He glances to his son, lightness added to his tone, "These assholes don't stand a chance."

And then our leader looks around at each one of us, nods, drops the dead blade of grass, stands, and walks off. _Gone as usual._

A boot softly nudging at my hand breaks me from my thoughts and I peer up to see Daryl staring down at me. That's when I realize my thumb is still in my mouth and I drop it, I know he hates that. Daryl kneels down and taking the back of his hand, he feels my forehead. Ever since I got sick a couple months ago he's been real paranoid about it. I think part of the reason was he had no idea what to do about my illness.

Sighing, Daryl moves away, talking very, very tiredly, "Get some sleep, kid."

And so I do.

I curl up in our field amongst my family and just before I drift off, I think about what this new place could be.

_Home._

* * *

_"'Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone,_

_Is where you go when you're alone,_

_Is where you go to rest your bones._

_It's not just where you lay your head,_

_It's not just where you make your bed._

_As long as we're together, does it matter where we go?"_

_~ Gabrielle Aplin: Home_


	4. Chapter 3: Calm

**:)**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 3: Calm

Everyone is wound tight and tension runs high in the air as I position myself at the fence the next morning. Carl is on my right, Carol to my left, and Lori and Beth are a couple feet down. Hershel stands at the gate, tightly clutching the grey chain-link, as Rick, Daryl, T-dog, Maggie, and Glenn ready themselves for what's to come. We squeezed out the last amount of strength that was left in us to fight for the soil under my feet yesterday and now, it doesn't even seem to matter anymore because there is a new obstacle we have yet to overcome.

That's what I've learned from being out on the road . . . Who you think you are or what accomplishments you have completed are nothing compared to this world.

It always has something more to give.

A rusted, spiraled pipe sits firmly in my grasp and I switch it back and forth between fingerless glove-covered hands. My bow is absent from the scene, don't need it, but I can feel the cool metal from the gun and knife at my waist when I move a certain way; the knife stuffed down in my right combat boot also shows itself by slightly rubbing against my ankle with every step.

This courtyard is a death yard suggesting by the blank-minded, stumbling walkers sprinkled in it, and their eerie noises quickly fill up my ears. I look away from the area we have yet to claim and over to the gate Hershel's still gripping. There is a big red octagon mounted on the chain-link and it reads in large white letters: "STOP. WAIT FOR CLEARANCE". I wish we could, I wish we could stop, but there is no one here to clear us and help. We don't get choices; they were robbed of us long ago.

My eyes retreat from the gate, the pipe stills, and I share the usual nod with Carl. A moment passes – a second, a beat, a breath – and then we get the show on the road with Hershel sliding back the gate and five of my family members slipping willingly into the danger. T-dog gets the first freak, sticking the formal inmate with his fireplace poker, and even though all of this is a hard pill to swallow we've survived worse. _Together._

Just like how we will push forward and win a home . . . _together. _

The others begin to slowly advance into the courtyard. They tightly shuffle in a circle formation so that everyone can watch each other's backs – Rick leads while Daryl holds the other three together – and I stare as the bodies start to fall down on the worn concrete. Hershel slides down to us – the people that are still where the others started – and then it triggers something in all of us since we are together as it should be. _Go time._

Moving along the fence, stepping sideways as we go, we do our job. I slam the pipe into the fence; kick the flimsy yet strong metal. Scream, _"Hey!"_

And then it begins.

The shouting, the taunting, the beating on the fence – it all runs together until it is one big noise.

The first walker we get, Hershel takes down, and then a few more come our way. A geek starts to shuffle towards me and I lure it in.

"Hey, asshole!" My teeth are gritted, my pipe is ready. _"C'mon!" _It snarls at me, practically tripping over its own two feet, and then I stab the not-human thing right between the eyes just like I've been taught. Piece of shit . . .

We manage to grab the attention of some others, I add two more walkers to my kill tally I have lost count of long ago. But there is still a lot more left in this broken-down place.

_There's just not enough coming._

I'm worked up now, kicking the fence, pacing, yelling, "Over here! Let's go!"

But our efforts do little to help because Glenn and T-dog and Maggie and Daryl and Rick – they got it. This part of the prison is now cleared, decorated in a sea of blue jumpers and occasional normal clothes.

We push on.

Almost home.

I watch as Rick leads the other four into the shade that a catwalk from up above provides. T-dog has a shield that was most likely taken from a guard – good thinking. Rick nudges a barely-open door, scanning whatever is inside for a second, and then him and all the other familiar faces disappear around the corner and out of eyesight.

"Damn it . . ." I mutter, grabbing the fence, and no one even gets on my case about it. Without taking my eyes off of the prison, I shuffle down the fence until I reach Lori and Beth – struggle to grasp a view of them again. _Nothing. _The corner is so abrupt and steep that there is no peering around it from here.

Lori starts to run the fence like I am and she goes to Carol. They've become good friends over time. "I can't see them. Can you see them?" she states and then questions with a quickness added to her words, she's starting to panic a bit.

Carol replies, whispering; which I'm not sure why because there is nothing left out here, _"They're back there . . ."_

A minute passes, another one – _one Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . . _I pace, I chew on my fingernails, and I never take my eyes off of the spot I last saw them. At one point I hear Rick screaming Daryl's name because my ears are listening harder than ever right now, and I don't like that one bit. Letting my fingers go, they fall lifelessly down to my sides; Daryl doesn't like it when I chew on them.

It gets quiet. I don't like the quiet, it brings bad things. But this is a good quiet because my friends step out from the darkness I hate so much, a little bloody and dirty, but okay, and I can breathe again.

Maggie, Daryl, Glenn, T-dog, Rick – that's five. They're all there. _Good. Good, good, good, good . . ._

Glenn begins to jog up to the gate we have all bunched by and when he gets merely one or two yards away, something stops him. The man halts, turns, and then back to Rick he goes. Huh? They are in a circle, talking, discussing – I can see lips moving from bodies turned my way but no words get to me. Daryl points back to where they came from, buck knife in hand, and then down to a dead body with normal clothes. Our leader is looking around, getting a good eyeful of all the surroundings. There is a jerk of a head from him, I see it, and he leads the other four past the ones that have no idea what is going on and to a caged staircase. Rick grabs the rusted door and it swings back without much effort. He and Daryl scale the steps and as T-dog, Glenn, and Maggie fill in the gaps behind them, I pan up to read a square sign labeled: "CELL BLOCK C". Daryl pushes back a steel, red door and it flows back smoothly. Everything is dark inside and everyone ventures into the unknown, the door closing behind them with a loud wail much different than the screech the gate made.

_What the hell?_

* * *

Five, ten, maybe even fifteen minutes we spend waiting at that gate for something we are uncertain of. Fifteen minutes of being burned by the sun – which is fine because I prefer the scorching heat over the brittle cold any day – before the door wails once more and Glenn and Maggie appear. We are a little anxious at first but then they inform us that we got a place to stay and need to get our stuff, so we get better. And as I jog through our field and snatch up my few belongings, the sun still follows me. I like the sun. It makes me alive – _okay._

The darkness doesn't sit well with me.

Glenn opens the shrieking gate for us and it doesn't sound all that bad this time around. We enter the courtyard – which is our courtyard now just like the field – and the sun heats this slab of concrete the most; still okay. Following Glenn up the stairs with the cage and through the red wailing door, I keep my backpack and quiver swung over my shoulder – hold my bow in my left hand. As soon as the door is smoothly glided shut and the sunlight is gone, we all pause for a moment to take everything in.

It is cooler in here, darker, and the only light flowing in is from a barred window placed high up on the wall to my right. The walls, floors, objects – everything – is gray and dull. A staircase all the way to the left leads up to a glass box where I spot a slumped over body in a chair, blood stains the glass. Moving further, Glenn leads us through an open barred door and down a set of stairs. The floor is completely trash-covered and my foot kicks an empty can of soup as we walk. Water is also splattered across some of the floor, pieces of trash floating in it, and I can even hear the drip-drop sound of the liquid falling down from somewhere. I examine some more and see two, dirty round tables with chairs attached, a balcony that wraps around half of the room, and empty cages – a lot of things are caged.

I've never been in a prison before.

Another doorway is conquered before we go under an arch and are greeted with some more prison-like surroundings. Two floors of open cells showcase the left side of the room, while the right keeps sporting those barred windows. Stairs in front of me go up to a perch which leads to the second floor of cells. Two signs – each on either side of the space – are square and read much like the one did outside: "C BLOCK". Just the "CELL" part is missing.

T-dog is dragging a body away, Daryl is looking around in the cells upstairs, and Rick is walking down the steps.

Our leader looks at us, his face is brightened more than I have seen in a long while, and he asks, "What do you think?"

"Home sweet home . . ." Glenn says grudgingly from the front as we fill into the space.

Rick's feet continue to thud down the steps until he is right here with us. "For the time being,"

Lori is examining the place as I had moments before, rubbing her belly. "It's secure?"

Her husband nods. "This cellblock is." It's weird that he's talking her.

A moment of nothing passes. Carl sides up next to me.

"What about the rest of the prison?" Hershel asks.

"In the morning, we'll find the cafeteria and infirmary."

"We . . . sleep in the cells?" hesitantly asks Beth.

"I found keys on some guards. Daryl has a set, too."

"I ain't sleepin' in no cage." Daryl states, strolling down the raised walkway. "I'll take the perch."

I shrug, the bag and quiver strap digging into my shoulders. I don't mind sleeping in a cell, or cage, as Daryl called it. This place may be gloomy but it doesn't give me that feeling I got out on the road in the darkest months of the year. Besides . . . a bed sounds so good right now.

We separate. Glenn and Maggie claim a cell on the first floor, Rick goes off to probably pace some more, and I spot Lori and Carol scaling the steps to the second floor. Carl leaves my side and walks over with Beth to a cell – I follow, stepping on trash as I go. I stand in the doorframe; Beth throws her things down in a corner.

"Pretty gross . . ." she says, lugging over to the bunk bed with frayed sheets. It's not that bad.

Carl scoffs, gun in hand, "Yeah, remember those storage units?"

What was that – one, two months ago? That was the worst place we've ever stayed at. There was a weird smell, raccoons in some units, roaches in boxes, spoiled food – we practically slept in filth.

Beth plops down on the bottom bunk and it bounces a bit. She pauses, feels the mattress, before lying back. "It's actually – it's actually comfortable." She smiles at Carl, then me. "Check it out."

Carl steps forward, I don't move from the door, and if he gets in bed with her, I swear to God –

But no. Carl touches the top bunk, getting on his tippy toes to get a better look at it. I should have known better but Carl has a crush on Beth, I know he does. I guess that's understandable.

Suddenly, Hershel appears in the doorway next to me and I have to bite back a smile. The old man's eyes go to Carl. "You find a cell yet?"

Carl turns to him, letting go of the bunk. "Ye-Yeah. I was just, um, making sure Beth was safe." he lies.

Snorting, I move away from the cell and after the boy stutters out some sort of goodbye, he joins me.

"So, uh," He stops me at the base of the steps. "You wanna bunk together?"

Oh. I'm his second choice, I see.

"Carl . . ." I sigh, shaking my head. "Go find your cell. _Own cell."_

His face changes. "Oh. O-Okay." And then he turns, stumbling away into a cell on the bottom level near Beth's. _Of course._

I end upstairs, two cells down from the perch, and near Carol and Lori.

Dumping my bag onto the ground, I take off my quiver, lean my bow up against the wall, and remove the knife from my boot. This'll be the first time in ages that I'll be able to sleep without any of my weapons and it feels weird. I let myself fall back on the bottom bunk with my still-rolled-up sleeping bag in my lap. I lean back, let out a noise from my lips that sounds like a horse snorting. It has been a long journey getting to this point.

Daryl comes into view at the door as I roll back my stiff shoulders. "Good?" he asks.

I grin, nod, "Good."

And he knows I mean it so he says, "Try an' get some sleep, you hear?"

"Loud and clear,"

"Alright . . ." He goes to leave but then comes back. "I'm right out here, 'member, "

"'Kay . . ." I mutter sleepily moments after he's gone.

I end up falling asleep with the sleeping bag still in my lap because I'm too worn out and sore to care.

And this place is too calm to care what I do either.

* * *

_"It's late in the night._

_It's late in the night for a start._

_It's quiet again._

_Too much for noise to go on to. _

_. . ._

_Waiting for something to break this calm."_

_~ Patrick Watson: Noisy Sunday_

* * *

**Yes, I used a song from The Walking Dead soundtrack. In fact, I used the song that was played in the exact scene at the end of this chapter. **

**It's one of the best of season three's soundtrack, in my opinion.**

**~ Rainy**


	5. Chapter 4: Bittersweet

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 4: Bittersweet

The world greets me early the next day and I usually rise with the sun, so I don't complain.

It's quiet in the cell block when I first step out. Sunlight streams through the slits in the barred windows and a coolness flows throughout the air. Trash still litters the floor – some of it has been kicked off to the side by now – but that's okay. It will get picked up eventually when we clean up and calm down and settle in and start to build a home.

We are going to pick up the pieces of this group that have slowly began cracking over the chilly fall and deathly freezing winter, and carefully place them back together. It might take time and we may cut ourselves on the sharp edges while building, but Rick will lead us home – I'll give him the credit. And these thoughts, these probably-too-grownup-for-a-kid thoughts, they form because I learned quickly what the hardships of life were early on. I also experience the failing state that the world has fallen into every day and maybe _– just maybe – _I should cut back on the reading of most-likely-suited-for-older-readers books that are smashed down between a shirt and a flashlight in my backpack; even though there are only two of them. I haven't been able to really get into the books having only read barely a quarter of the Stephen King's thrilling short story and just a chapter of the other book – "Of Mice and Men" by: John Steinbeck – and this is true because it is hard to focus when danger could be lurking around the next bend. But nonetheless, books themselves make me _think. _

And that leads to the thoughts.

Which are, more often than not, dark or suited for an older person.

Setting my thoughts aside, the quietness quickly dies off and sound fills the space as I make my way down to where most of our small group stands.

We got to keep pushing on_, always, _and I know that all too well. Whatever ammunition we have is out and people are gearing up. Rick is helping T-dog put on body armor that they stole from a dead body, Daryl is fiddling with his crossbow scope. The plan is to go down in the tombs – that's what T-dog called the unexplored dark corridors – and find the armory, infirmary, cafeteria – whatever we need to help us keep going for a little while longer. I don't even make a move to gather anything because I know I am not tagging along, not this time. From the looks of it, Rick, Daryl, T-dog, Glenn, Maggie, and Hershel are taking this one. Not Carl, though, because he's my partner and we stick together. Only on rare occasions is that statement untrue.

And this isn't a rare occasion.

Speaking of the boy, he's to my left and I watch as he puts on a riot helmet where his Sheriff hat should be. Bowing his head, the hard hat slides off and Carl catches it. He then grins, dirt sprinkled on his cheeks, and I spot Beth smiling back.

And if looks could kill, someone would be dropping dead from my green eyes right now.

Rick extends an arm and takes the black helmet from his son. "You won't need that," Carl holds out his hands, palm up. He's confused. "I need you to stay put."

"You're kidding . . ."

Well, he should know by now if I'm not going than he's not either . . .

"We don't know what's in there." Rick reasons as Carl positions the Sheriff hat back where it belongs. "Something goes wrong; you could be the last man standing. I need you to handle things here."

The boy nods, eyes moving from his father to the rest of us. _"Sure."_

Our leader turns, eyes on me now because he hasn't forgotten the done-deal partnership established long ago. "Just make sure – "

"You got it." I interrupt because I already know the drill, it's always the same.

Rick nods those drawn-out nods that he does a lot, Carl mirrors it sometimes. He turns back around. _"Great." _My ears pick up on the chiming jingle of keys knocking into one another and then Carl is holding the ring to all of the keys that work in this cell block. "Let's go."

And as they go, Lori comes out of her cell and stands at the second floor's railing, one hand on her belly. Rick gazes up at his wife, his eyes softening for a moment like they used to when he would see her, and then he is gone with the other five. Carl securely locks the peeling, barred door behind them and Beth, Carol, and I crowd around it. Carol squeezes Beth's shoulder reassuringly, Carl clips the keys to his belt, and Lori stays by the railing.

It's just us now.

* * *

Carl and I – we're a few feet away from the still-locked door and are sitting in a spot we cleared of trash. My bow is resting beside my right leg, close enough to easily grab, and Carl has his gun in his lap, both silencer and safety on.

"So," I say, resting my back and head against the gray wall. "you went from Sheriff to Leader in one day . . . How's it feel?"

Carl is the closest to the door and he hasn't taken his eyes off of it this whole time, doesn't even now. "I hate it." I raise my eyebrows. _Really?_ He finally turns, the hat is low. "You – you heard my dad, right? What he said – I can't be _that."_

_Last man standing. _

"And you won't have to." I tell the boy, pulling my bow into my lap. "They'll be okay_, I know, _all six of them will be."

They have to; at least, because reality is mean and if they were never to return, we'd die. Not necessarily because of Carl, no, but because of the rules. _Survival of the fittest._

He pushes the hat up so I can see the blue eyes he shares with his father. "You really think that?"

I nod.

And after a moment of internal conflict within him, he nods back.

And our nods, our unworded actions that we have developed over time, are something not even Beth can drag away. Like the role the word _good _plays between Daryl and I, the nods between Carl and me are more than what they seem. And the only reason the others going off into the tombs is so hard right now is because after all this time on the road . . . everyone was _always together. _We barely separated and if we did, we stayed close to one another. This group is tightly sewn together, I'll admit to it, and perhaps it is for the best.

You need people now.

Lori and Carol are descending the stairs now and then they disappear off somewhere else. Carl is back to watching the barred prison-like door and I ask him, "Talk to your mom yet?"

A lot has been going on with the Grimes family lately and Carl and I talk, so I'm no stranger to it. Rick hates Lori – even though he never admitted to it – and Carl can't stand her.

"You didn't talk to yours much." he shrugs, not seeming to give a damn about the topic.

We all know what happened with Anna . . .

"Not like I had a choice, Carl, she _left me."_ I pause, I'm over that now. I'm over Mom and Dad and Payton and Mr. and Mrs. Ellington – _everyone. _"You do, though, and I'm sure she'd like to hear from you. Especially with the baby on the way,"

Carl doesn't answer and maybe he doesn't want this baby anymore, so I give up – run a finger over my bowstring. "Fine. _Whatever."_

A moment passes. A sigh from Carl. "I mean – "

_" – he's losing too much blood – "_

A voice, Maggie's voice, and then there is clanking of metal and an explosion of frantic voices in the next room over. I'm on my feet before I know it, bow ready, and Carl is up, too.

"Open the door! It's Hershel!" yells Rick, I don't see him yet. Don't see anyone. Carl and I are jogging and then Lori, Carol, and Beth are scrambling out from wherever they were. _"Carl! River!"_

Carl and me – we're here, at the door, and he's struggling with the key; shaky hands. The door swings open, getting pushed aside, and I all see is bright red blood as Hershel is wheeled in on a cart of some sorts. The old man doesn't seem to be conscious.

And that's when I realize his right leg, from his toes up to his kneecap, is missing. _Gone. _There is nothing left but a raw stump spewing out blood and the memory of two legs being there no more than a half hour ago.

"Oh my God . . ."

T-dog closes the squeaky door, going back into the other room. I don't see Daryl but as Hershel is quickly moved into the closest cell and lowered down on the bottom bunk, I can only assume he's alright.

Rick explains that Hershel got bit and he chopped off the leg to stop the infection from spreading. I've never seen anything like that performed before, but it makes sense – yes, it does – and good leader, good Rick, good call, good judgment . . .

Too bad this situation is far from good.

Carol needs more bandages, towels, anything – Glenn says we already used everything we got. Lori is prepared, though, and she sends Carl and me to retrieve some extra towels upstairs in her cell.

The rest is a blur.

Running, hurrying, shouting, talking, crying, worrying – that's as best as I can describe it.

Until I hear a voice I've never heard before coming right from the next room, our backyard pretty much.

_"Hey, this is my house, my rules! I go where I damn well please!"_

We all turn. Beth asks what _that _was.

Rick turns to us, gripping the doorway. "Prisoners, survivors – "

_"What?" _Glenn gasps. My eyes widen.

"It's alright. Everybody stay put."

But that's hard for a curious kid like me to do and Carl has the key, so we run out with Rick after he discusses possibilities with Glenn; locking the door behind him. The voices followed us the whole way but only now by the door can I really hear them.

"There ain't nothin' for ya here!" Daryl's voice is the first one I pick apart from the yelling. _He's okay._ "Why don't you go back to your own sandbox and – "

_"Hey, hey, hey!" _Rick barges in, barking. Carl and I stay by the door. We can't see anything but listening is just as good; reminds me of eavesdropping with him and Jimmy at the screen door during the Randall debate. "Everyone relax. There's no need for this."

"How many of you in there?" it's the same voice from earlier and there's something about it that I just don't like.

"Too many for you to handle,"

That sets the stage for the brewing conversation and Carl and I share a look – we're gonna stay and tune in.

The voice goes back to questioning, "You guys rob a bank or something? Why don't you take him to a hospital?"

_Hershel. _

_"What?" _I ask to no one really and so much air comes out with the word that it becomes nothing short of a whisper. If there was a hospital Hershel would be there by now.

There is a pause and just when I start to think that Rick, Daryl, or T-dog heard my confused whisper, Rick speaks, "How long have you been locked in that cafeteria?"

So they found them in the cafeteria. Makes sense, I guess. Food, water, shelter . . . sounds like a nice little setup.

There is a bit of rustling. "About ten months."

That's longer than we were on the road by two months so before then the prison must've of still been intact.

"A riot broke out." another voice, another inmate. This one sounds less threatening. "Never seen anything like it . . ."

A third inmate talks and sounds more southern like my group is, "Attica on speed, man." _Whatever that means . . ._

"Ever heard about dudes going cannibal, dying, coming back to life?" a fourth one asks. Jeez, how many of these guys are there? _"Crazy."_

We call it _reality._

The threatening voice returns, "One guard looked out for us, locked us up in cafeteria. Told us, 'sit tight' – threw me this piece,"

"They have guns." I whisper to Carl. He swallows and a second later my ears pick up on the clicking sound of the safety on his gun being switched off.

" – said he'd be right back."

"Yeah, and that was two-hundred-ninety-two days ago." There is a fifth prisoner. I notch a fresh arrow into my weapon of choice.

_"Ninety-four." _corrects the more southern one. "According to my cal – "

_"Shut up!" _the threatening one that I now know has a gun hisses. He seems to be the leader around here.

"We were thinkin' that the Army or the National Guard should be showing up any day now." states the fifth inmate. They're betting on the horse with a broken leg.

And Rick tells them that, not in those exact words, no, but he says that there is no army, government, hospitals, police . . . All that protection, all that authority, is _gone. _The prisoners start to ask about family members we don't know and probably never will because those people are most likely dead.

"Yo, you – you, uh, got a cell phone or something that we can call our families?"

"You got to be kidding me . . ." I mutter. How can they not understand?

"Talk about living under a rock," Carl mutters back.

_"Oh yeah."_

"You just don't get it, do you?" Daryl questions and they don't, these formal inmates really _don't._

"No phones. No computers." Rick adds to the growing pile of what we used to have. "As far as we can see, at least half the population has been wiped out. Probably more."

We are just the leftovers that got bittersweet lucky.

* * *

Carl and I return to the cell to find out that the bleeding of Hershel's stump has slowed but not stopped. He'll need crutches if he lives, Carol decides that, and I try not to think about it all too much. But standing here looking down at our unconscious, pale, old vet with his insides sticking out and bloody sheets surrounding his body, I can't help but not.

You can't run from reality or time. None of it works.

Lori dips a bloody cloth into a bucket of water sitting on the broken sink. "Right now we could use some antibiotics and painkillers . . . some sterile gauze."

"There's gotta be an infirmary here." says Carol, still trying to stop the blood.

Lori puts the cloth down on Hershel's forehead. That action and me are old friends because it took days for me to break my fever. Cold, wet cloths and even snow was used; anything to help stop the virus inside of me that my body was trying so desperately to fight. "If there is, we'll find it."

And that's the last thing I hear before Carl pulls me out into the hallway.

I give him a confused glare as he lets go of my arm. The boy talks lowly, making sure no one else can hear, "Carol said that there has to be an infirmary and we already know what we need,"

I know where this is going. I can already feel the bitter bite from the snow on my skin. "Carl – "

"We have maps, River!" he exclaims, gritting his teeth, and going as loud as he dares. A second ticks by before Carl speaks again, quieter, _"We have maps . . . _You and me – we'll find it."

I shake my head, can still feel that snow. _"Last time – "_

"This won't be like last time, okay?"

"How can you be so sure?"

"Food's here!" calls T-dog's voice and this gains my attention because when do we ever have food? The snow feeling is gone now. Carl dashes up to the door and opening it, T-dog and Rick step through with boxes and bags of food. _Whoa._

"What you got?" Carl asks, locking the door behind them and T-dog replies as they venture further into the cell block,

"Canned beef, canned corn, canned cans . . ." the man lists off. "There's a lot more where this came from."

_"Seriously?"_ I question, surprise added to my tone.

"Positive."

This would be considered a good day if Hershel wouldn't be in the state he is. Bittersweet, oh, how everything is so bittersweet . . .

I jog with Carl to the end of the hall. T-dog is waiting for Rick, readjusting the boxes in his arms a bit.

Carl asks when we get close enough, "Need help with that?"

_"Yeah . . ."_

Carl takes one box while I take the other. Rick hands over the two other bags to T-dog and then we set everything down in an empty cell.

"Me and River can sort it." Carl informs T-dog. I can hear Rick and Lori chatting.

The man nods. "Alright, cool."

And then he's gone, and so are the voices coming from outside.

I pick up a can of peaches from inside one of the boxes, examine it. "Damn, that's a lot of food . . ." More than I've seen in months.

"Yeah." Carl agrees. Some more time passes. "So are we going to do this or what?"

I know what he's talking about and it's not the wonders of sorting canned food. _"Now?" _

He nods.

Sighing, I put the can down. Carl wins, of course he does. "I'll go get my bow."


	6. Chapter 5: Feeling

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 5: Feeling

Carl and I sneak out of the cell block's back entrance.

We open the barred door only enough for us to squeeze our bodies through because it would squeak on its hinges otherwise. The others think we are organizing the food, Carl's still got the keys, and we have a battered, yellow-stained map he managed to somehow retrieve from the warden's office to aid us in navigating through this maze.

The odds are in our favor today.

_Left, right, left, right. Gray wall, gray floor, gray ceiling, no windows – it's kind of stuffy. _The thick-aired hallway we are going down is the same as the last, every turn we make runs together to create one big blob in my brain. Breathing and footfalls are the only sounds in earshot; our weapons aimed and loaded out of pure uncertainty.

Carl, however, has that damn map – which this whole trip is relying on – and he gestures around the next bend. The infirmary is close.

But before Carl and I can take the next corner, a very distinct and familiar noise is heard and we both press up against the wall.

A moment of nothing passes. I swallow; draw another breath, before we make brief eye contact because maybe we're just losing our minds together. But then the breathy groan lost in space sounds again and it becomes a reality.

I mouth one word to the boy in front of me as our bodies tense up: _Walker?_

He watches, thinks, and then his head is peering around the corner.

Carl holds up two fingers when he returns to me. _Two walkers. _

At least we're not outnumbered.

Carl is the leader here, I am the follower, and I wait for him to advance forward so we can get the job done. It's when he never does, though, that pulls me up short.

"Ladies first." he says, quiet enough so the danger won't hear – well, I guess actually states – and this lures a faint grin out of me.

"Quite the gentleman," I tell him as I pass.

My bow is silently lowered down to the hard floor and my knife replaces it. Creeping forward, I take in the two gurgling walkers wearing blue jumpers as they stumble about; still unaware of their visitors. This time can't be like the last winter run, I won't let it get that bad – I also can't risk an arrow.

The geek I am after is close enough to touch.

And that's when the thing realizes that it has company – right on schedule – and lets me know with a snarl. The snarl is my signal and as the freak reaches down to me, freaking out because it is starving, I take the opportunity to stab it right between the eyes. Just like I was taught.

Funny how you can teach somebody to kill. Just . . . like . . . that . . .

As my kill quiets down, I remove the blade and the frozen body falls lifelessly to the ground. Throughout the commotion, however, he alerted his buddy, but this is where Carl comes in and he shoots down the remaining walker; his makeshift silencer smothering the shot. The corridor settles back down to the quiet. Carl and I do our nod and then he moves back to pick up my discarded weapon, handing it to me as I resheath the knife. The boys' eyes hold question.

"Had to be quick," I answer, slowing my heart that I didn't even realize was moving so fast. My finger brushes the light feather at the non-pointy tip of one arrow. "Waste of an arrow, anyways." Because we talk and are friends, Carl knows that my arrows aren't as strong as they used to be. The dainty wood has rotted a bit over time from rain and snow and just overall usage. It happens, I guess, but the daggers that make my weapon of choice actually dangerous are harder to come by as the last bits of civilization we used to have wither away. Can't say I miss much of my old life and "family", but sometimes when it gets quiet I replay memories and yeah, I do. I do miss climbing into Dad's truck that I named Old Blue – no idea why, maybe because it was blue – and putting in one of our rock band's CD's. I do miss Mom's smile and laugh, her Saturday morning pancakes, too; even though sometimes she burned them. I also miss playing with the neighborhood kids because they didn't care what your background was; they just wanted to have fun. There were five of us and we'd meet up by Jake's tire swing and figure out what game to play that day. And sometimes_, sometimes, _I even miss school with its hard math problems and snotty girls because it was all I knew – all of it was.

But King County is gone and so are all of those people.

And I have to focus and pay attention to what the world is _now_ without Mom and Dad and the neighborhood kids and school.

Oh, how my mind wonders . . .

We come to some doors and Carl says that the destination is on the left, second one down. It's locked, I pick it because Carl's keys are just for everything in cell block C, and then we move into the unknown; set on high alert.

The infirmary is clear, guess they kept it locked up tight, but neither of us confirm this until every nook and cranny is checked. The floor is covered in trash like every other floor in this godforsaken prison, cabinets hang open – some are even off their hinges – sinks are loose, and dried blood stains some areas of the room; I try to ignore it and the feeling in the pit of my stomach it brings. It is not pitch black in here because of some high-perched windows, but it still dim so Carl and I bring out the flashlights, skim over what's left.

There is nothing for a while and I can only assume that when inmates started to get bit they tried to "cure them", but then I stumble upon a cabinet stuffed in the back corner and it is like winning the lottery.

_"Jackpot." _I say, taking it all in as my flashlight settles on the medical supplies.

This causes Carl to scamper over to me, an empty bag he took from up front hanging off one shoulder, and his eyes widen. _"Sweet,"_ Looking to him, I notice that his hat is crooked so I fix it. The boy grins at me and my eyes retreat because I'm getting that burning, little feeling I get occasionally with Carl. Taking a second, I bury it like I always do, and then we're grabbing bandages, painkillers, disinfectant, more pill bottles – any other medical things that we may not be sure off, but looks promising so we swipe it off the shelf.

And then my partner in crime and I finish up our mission by starting back home.

Where I'm sure we will have some explaining to do.

* * *

The back door to the cell block screeches open and closed. Carl's keys jingle, the lock clicks into place. He holds the bag and his gun while I grip my bow. Our footsteps echo throughout the surprisingly quiet cell block as we walk down the line of cells and under the perch.

Glenn peeks his head out from Hershel's cell, arms crossed. "Thought you guys were organizing the food?" He sounds stressed, has every reason to be, and handling the food was what we, Carl and me were supposed to do. _Supposed to. _

Carl smirks as we approach the open cell. "Even better."

"Check it out," I tell the others as the two of us come in and Carl sets the bag down, its contents spilling out. Carol, Lori, Maggie, Glenn, and Beth looked confused at first, but then they look down it and it all soon changes.

Carol gasps, reaches into the dull-colored bag. I bring a thumb to my mouth even though I know so, so, so much that I shouldn't. "Where did you two get this?"

I lean back on the wall; coolly holding the bow in one hand while still nibbling on my limb with the other. Carl answers, telling the truth, and says that we went down to the infirmary. The women have crowded around the bag, now, treating it like gold.

"Wasn't too much left," I gesture to the supplies with my bow, not moving the thumb from my teeth. "but we cleared it out."

Lori's eyes widen but not for a good reason. "You went by yourselves? Just the two for you?" I remove my thumb; starting to feel a bit like we were in the wrong here because of what happened last time we went off by ourselves. Carol is rapidly moving bandages over Hershel's stump, but I look away because I don't want to see that.

"Yeah." another honest answer from Carl.

We have managed to grab Maggie's attention here now, too, and her eyes are big.

_"Are you crazy?" _Lori breathes.

I guess so.

"No big deal. We took out two walkers."

The real kicker is, though, that it actually does sound like a big deal with these wide eyes and accusing stares and harshly-toned words.

Lori pans over Hershel's limp body, holds her hand up. "Alright – do you see this? _This _was with the whole group!"

It's not just Carl but me, too, and maybe I should say sorry but I can't – I just _can't._

"We needed supplies so River and me, we got them." His voice rises in tone a tad.

"And I appreciate that, but – "

_"Then get off our backs!" _

Oh, Carl . . .

"Carl!" this is Beth, snapping in from her position on the floor between her sister and the medicine bag. Her father might not be doing so well and tears may still stain her face slightly, but she doesn't belong in this conversation; I know that. "She's your mother. You can't talk to her like that."

Maybe or maybe not, I don't know the guidelines to speaking to your mom.

Carl sighs. Lori starts talking again, calmer, "Listen, I think it's great you wanna help – "

But those words fall short because then Carl is running out. I follow him; let the look on my face do all the talking. It doesn't take long to find the boy, no, I seek him out in his cell a few doors down. He stands the middle of the room – fists pulled into tight balls – when I come into his space, not knocking because we're past that now. Carl's eyes are on the dull wall and walls know all of your secrets because they are with you behind closed doors.

I prop my bow up against the door frame, move a step closer; or one more – my feet stop at three. His two blue eyes are still dead-locked at that wall; the hat sits low and frames his face.

"Look, I'm sorry about Beth." I say, waiting afterwards for something, anything, from him. _Nothing. Try again. _"She can get kind of bitchy but – "

"Don't call her _that!"_ Carl shuts me up, voice climbing straight up to a yell. He turns away from the wall and faces me. "Don't even bring her up, okay, _don't . . ."_

He is being so defensive and this is when I am certain that Carl has a thing – a crush – for Beth. It's being waved in front of my face, shoved down my throat. _He likes Beth. _

I swallow, talk careful and calm like Lori, "Carl – "

But just like Lori, I get thrown away, too. "You wanted me to talk to my mom so badly, you got what you wanted. _Just be happy."_

Carl's voice is soft and stinging and I am not happy, far from it actually.

My feet skid back a step, arms going from crossed to down. "Dammit, Carl . . ." I point. _"You – and you – you – " _I have no clue where my words are taking me, but I don't want any of this so I flee; snatching my bow up in the process.

And that little burning feeling, it gets buried even further down than ever before.

Six feet under my heart made of stone.

* * *

Hershel stops breathing an hour later.

Another reminder that most efforts and fights are for nothing.

Beth is screaming, Maggie is crying, and me, well, I'm just standing emotionless at the door; green eyes full of sorrow. Carl is beside me – not that I care – and this is when Lori swoops in and begins useless CPR on the old man. Glenn and Carol are outside and too far away to hear our cries of distress.

The two sisters hold each other and sob. Lori is pounding on Hershel's chest, blowing air into his mouth; there is no life left in the body.

So this is what it looks like when someone just dies naturally – doctors surrounding their motionless body and trying desperately with the zappy thing to bring them back.

But when Lori goes to blow air into Hershel's lungs for the second time, his arm not cuffed to the bed reaches up and grips her hair.

I don't think. My brain stops, maybe even my heart as well, but my bow is aimed before any other reaction is expressed.

And I almost let that arrow fly between my fingers; too, as Lori springs back into Maggie and Beth's arms and Carl raises up his gun.

That is until I notice Hershel's eyes are normal and not too far gone.

* * *

Ten minutes later, and Glenn is back. Carol is absent, though, and he says that she's working on something. Five more minutes and then the door is squeaking again and Rick, Daryl, and T-dog appear.

"Hershel stopped breathing," Carl informs his father as they join him, Glenn, and me at the cell entrance. "Mom saved him."

Rick looks to me for clarification and I nod, "Yeah . . ."

Our leader takes the keys from his son and enters the cell, T-dog following. Daryl stays close and Lori states that there is yet for any fever to be detected on Hershel.

The fever always comes second.

First is the bite.

There is some mumbles from the old, one-legged man, people crowd around – not me – and then his blue eyes open.

_Alive._

* * *

**So I recently started school back up again (last week actually) and life has been pretty hectic. I am going to try to strive for an update every weekend or so, but we all know how that goes . . .**

**Also, since it seems people are starting to ship River and Carl I have set their ship name to be Rarl. It could be Civer, too, but personally I like Rarl better. :)**

**~ Rainy**


	7. Chapter 6: Eruption

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 6: Eruption

Daryl comes to me after things calm down.

Judging by the high-barred windows, it's about nightfall when he steps into my cell that he refers to as a cage. Carol informed him about the infirmary run Carl and I went on, I'm not surprised. And I wish I could treat the topic like it matters as Daryl explains to me why we don't go off alone anymore, scolding me without trying, but I just can't. Hershel was dying, we acted, and now he's alive. That should be enough.

It is not enough, though, not when you got the winter to look back on.

Not when I scared the hell out of Daryl – the others, _me . . ._

My argument? Well, I tell the man that I was careful; on guard. Didn't waste an arrow, stayed close to my partner, checked every nook and cranny, did what I was supposed to and taught – nothing more, nothing less. And he listens, Daryl does, and he always will. The whole conversation is calm and patient and careful.

In the end, I am in the wrong. I don't argue; no point. It's better to just accept it for what it is.

Daryl warns me that I'll get the bow taken away if I pull another stunt.

_Yeah, right . . ._

I ask how long, he says however long it needs to be or until he feels like giving my weapon back.

But it was Carl's idea – _whatever._

* * *

It's morning and that talk seems irrelevant now. _Irrelevant. _That word was in one of my books a few weeks back. I asked Carol about it, she told me, and the definition stuck. Living seems irrelevant most of the time.

I sit on the steps with Carl. He's tinkering with his silencer because apparently it is jammed. Rick, Daryl, T-dog, Carol, Glenn, and Maggie went out to move the cars. Lori and Beth left to look around for some crutches and it's okay if they leave to do something because they're older. I wonder when this kid shit will ever stop; probably won't live to see the day. Hershel is in his cell, I haven't seen the crippled man since yesterday.

I left my bow in my cell and I miss it now. I need something to do. Shoving my hands in my jacket pockets, I look down at the floor. We cleaned up this morning, doesn't look so bad now. I guess this place could actually be something. It is just a little run-down . . . _like us. _

Carl continues to fool with the baseball bat he uses as a silencer because to find a real silencer is rare these days. A wave of annoyance passes over me. The metal noises are agitating, the no talking is agitating, Carl in the flesh is even agitating. I know how he feels.

Footfalls sound on the concrete floor, shadows appear, and I look up to see Beth and Lori. The second woman, Lori, is carrying something. I'll be damned . . . they actually found crutches, real ones, too. I've only ever needed crutches once because when I was eight I sprained my ankle playing tag at recess. I thought crutches were cool but in reality, they're just a pain in the ass. And then the year before that I broke my wrist because I fell out of a tree during an intense round of hide and go seek. I wasn't exactly careful when I was younger but after a few trips to the doctors, I learned to decline some of the dares Jake, Asher, or Isaac challenged me with. They were the reason I was in that tree in the first place. Payton never dared me to do anything, no, but she wasn't exactly a chicken either.

Beth smiles at both Carl and me. She's a sweet girl, hard for me to be mad at her.

They both disappear into Hershel's cell. Carl jumps up, I follow.

"Alright . . ." says Lori when I make it to the doorway. She sets the crutches down beside the older man's bedside. Hershel is lying down on the bottom bunk and he gazes up at us for a moment. Reaching up, he grabs the bars on the top bunk and pulls himself up with a grunt. Instead of two legs spilling off the side of the bed there is one. It is a bit strange looking at Hershel with his right pant leg half empty, but it will become a norm eventually. Just like dead people trying to eat you are.

Lori informs Hershel to take his time as he grips the crutches, still sitting on the bunk. His youngest daughter warns him not to push himself.

Hershel sighs, standing, "What else am I going to do?" Lori and Beth help him position himself on the crutches correctly, right under both armpits. "Can't stand looking at the bottom of that bunk any lon – " The old vet attempts to take a step forward, but he is very wobbly so he stumbles back instead.

_"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa . . ."_

There is a pause as the two women steady him. Hershel taps the bottom of the crutches a few times on the floor before he moves forward again, slowly – one step, two steps; he inches closer to Carl and me.

"You know," he announces, "I think I'm pretty steady."

Hershel clanks closer to the door. I back up a few steps to give him room.

There is a rare grin spread across Lori's lips as she looks down at his feet – _foot. _"That's a good start. Take a rest?"

_"Rest?" _He chuckles. "Let's go for a little stroll."

I'm glad I never let that arrow fly yesterday.

* * *

Stepping outside, the sun is warm on my skin and the air is fresh in my lungs. The vehicles are in the courtyard rather than down by the gate and they move in reverse a few yards away from us, tires crunching across the pavement. We help Hershel down the stairs and through the rusty gate, leaving it propped open. Steel bleachers are positioned to my left and basketball hoops stand tall around this space. They probably have not been used in a long while, though, suggesting by the grimy state they are in.

Hershel swings himself forward as we venture into the courtyard some more, the crutches clanking with every step. He seems to be getting the hang of it.

Lori settles her hand on his shoulder; the older man takes in the surroundings. "You cleared all those bodies out," he observes, "It's startin' to look like a place we could really live in."

We did a lot of housekeeping this morning and perhaps Hershel is correct, we could really _live _here for a long time; longer than other places before.

Lori is focused on Hershel's leg. She's overdue for her baby, I can tell by the baby bump, and she holds her back as we walk. "Hey, you watch your step." she cautions Hershel. "Last thing we need is you fallin'."

That would be bad.

_"Alright, Hershel!" _

I snap my head up to see Glenn down by the far fence, hands cupped around his mouth. Rick and Daryl are with him, too, firewood at their feet. I keep my green eyes locked on the three of them for a little longer and watch as Daryl's mouth moves, he points to some walkers ambling from beyond the fence, near the tree line.

They always figure out a way to mess everything up . . .

The five of us have trekked though most of the courtyard by now, and we're almost to a stopping point. Beth informs her dad that he is doing great and he is, really, _he truly is._

"Ready to race, Hershel?" Carl asks.

I add, "I'm in on this one."

"Give me another day . . ." he breathes. "I'll take you both on."

Carl laughs, grinning at me. I smile back – telling myself to be nice – but it turns out a lot less forced than intentioned.

_I can't be mad . . . not at him, nor at Beth. If he likes her, so be it. Perhaps it's the way it is supposed to be._

Over to my far right Carol climbs out of the red station wagon. She says something to T-dog, beaming. Maggie is with them as well.

We stop walking, stand in a line instead. We're facing the three down at the fence and I go to grab my quiver strap, but it's not there – left both that and my bow in my cell. _Darn._

I make eye contact with Daryl. We nod at each other from a far.

Scratch yesterday – today will be a good day.

_"Walkers!" _

Too bad reality won't allow it.

* * *

The courtyard erupts into chaos.

Carl was the one who sounded the alarm and my head whips to him. He's facing the other direction, looking at something; staring. Whirling around, my eyes lay upon a few of many, many walkers that are pouring out from around the corner. This place was supposed to be secure, a home, and – and now there is too many danger hazards to count staring me down in the face. There was a breach, had to have been, but how? _When? _

_When _doesn't matter, though, _now _does.

The drooling freaks are stumbling closer and I jump up on a set of bleachers with Carl. My bow is gone, abandoned in my own cell, and I am panicking. Arrows would do little to help us out here but it is my backup, plan B. _Crap, crap, crap!_

Taking out my handgun, I check the bullets. There is not a whole lot left but a decent amount. I snap the chamber back into place; click the safety off. Everything is happening so quickly.

We're gonna run out of ammo.

The gunshots pierce the air like a choir – boom, boom, boom. I join in, killing a biter here and there, and our once clean courtyard becomes a battlefield again.

_"No!" _Rick is screaming. I allow myself to sneak a peek for a split second while my partner has my back to see him, Daryl, and Glenn sprinting down the fenced walkway. _"Get out of there! Now!" _

The things are getting too close for comfort, won't stop coming, and I abandon the bleachers, yanking Carl with me.

We manage to get split up, however, after he goes left and I head right to dodge some walkers. Beth and Hershel retreat to a caged area that looks safe enough, T-dog says something about a gate, my arms are stinging, ears are ringing, and I know – oh, I know – my bullets are limited. _Make them count. _

After more running and screaming and gunshots Maggie, Lori, and Carl disappear. I catch a glimpse of the three of them getting smothered by the cell block's darkness as the door closes and my mind figures that _home _is the only other option at this point.

T-dog is at the gate in the far corner, which is where _they_ are coming from, and I get why he talked about the object earlier. I venture closer, weaving in and out of walkers. Carol is to my right – just went around a pillar – and that is when I notice a scrawny walker advancing on T-dog as he locks the gate into place.

_"T!" _I shout, hoping there is still enough time.

There isn't.

The walker growls, grabs T-dog's shoulder, and clamps down.

I act – no hesitating this time.

The man with a now gaping hole in his right shoulder yells in pain as the geek clings to him. He manages to push the thing down off of him and I empty three rounds into its head. Carol screams _no. _

And then I'm all out of bullets.

Carol runs to a red door, says to hurry. Before I can move, however, T-dog grabs one of my arms.

"Listen," he swallows, the hand not gripping me covering his shoulder. The blood has started to seep through his shirt. "Me and Carol will take this way, but you have to go back with the others. We'll meet you in the cell block."

I – I don't understand . . . "But – "

Releasing my arm, T-dog aims his gun with his good arm, empties the chamber to kill the three walkers blocking the caged cell block steps. He slams the gun down on the pavement, pushing me forward. "Go, kid, _go!" _T-dog's teeth are clenched tight. He is enduring a lot of pain, I can tell. _"Get out of here!"_

I break into a sprint, only letting up to unlatch the cage door. Walkers begin to approach, but I have the door closed and am stumbling up the steps before they can even get close. My fingers latch onto the red door – the entrance to the cell block – and I glide it back to reveal only more walkers. The biter closest to me stretches its arms out, snarling, and I quickly lodge a knife into its head. Pushing the thing's lifeless body back, my actions give me time to slam the door closed.

Afterwards, I sink down to the cement, my back up against the door. _Breathe._

_One . . . two . . . three . . ._

A couple walkers grab at the chain-link surrounding me, groaning and moaning and growling and snarling.

_Four . . . five . . . six . . ._

More gunshots. Someone is in the courtyard, for the booms are close.

_Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . ._

The biters invading my space fall down. I hear faint talking.

_Ten._

Rick appears from the other side of my enclosure. His voice comes through, "Where's everyone else? Lori, Carl – "

"T was bit." that's all I can say.

He pauses, lowers his strong voice. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

A siren – an awful siren – choses that time to blare throughout the courtyard. It hurts my ears, sends my heart back into a panic. Rick glances back at two prisoners I've never seen in person before. I thought there were five . . . _"Stay put!" _

I bury my head into my knees as the screaming sirens wear on. The knife in my boot is the only weapon I have left and I can feel it digging into my leg. You can be as strong as you want to be, sure, but everyone still has panic attacks.

Quick and heavy footsteps thud towards me; I peer up to see Rick. He tells me to back up and I skid back into the far corner, still scrunched up in a ball. The man shoots the speaker from up above the cage and it flashes, cracks, some wires falling down in the process. The blaring lessens but it is still there. _It's everywhere._

Our leader rushes back over to the prisoners that Daryl has his crossbow aimed at. Glenn is standing a few feet off. There's talking, nothing I catch, and then Daryl comes over.

Unlike Rick, he throws open the cage door and enters. Kneeling down to my level, he speaks lowly, "You're okay . . . _you're okay . . ." _Daryl carefully encircles his hand over my wrist – the same one I broke when I was seven – and I am starting to feel a little better, but just a little. We stand up together. "You bit, hurt – anythin'?"

I shake my head; we're walking down the steps. "No."

"Good."

_"Good." _I reply.

Daryl leads me over to the other side of the courtyard where Hershel and Beth are in their own cage. He turns to me. "You're gonna stay in here with them for a little while. We'll be back in a bit."

"Okay."

And after I am locked away with the other two for safety reason, Daryl, Glenn, Rick, and the two other prisoners run off.

This isn't the first time I have had one of my rare panic attacks when Daryl was around.

* * *

Eventually, the sirens are shut off, diminishing into nothing.

A few more minutes after _eventually_, the same five people that went in come out – no new faces.

T-dog and Carol are dead; they found what was left of them. So that's why T pushed me away . . . _he knew._

That just makes it hurt all the more.

We get let out of the cage and Rick asks if anyone came out here, no one did.

Our leader says that we gotta keep looking; that –

Cell block C's door slides open. There are two figures – Maggie and Carl – no Lori. Maggie is holding something wrapped up in a jacket and there is a baby crying.

_Oh no . . ._

Tears run down Maggie's face as they stumble forward, Carl's head is bowed. Blood covers both of their hands and arms.

Rick approaches them, the hatchet he was carrying clanging down to the pavement. Maggie looks at him, lip quivering and red eyes.

Our leader paces. "Where – where is she? _Where is she?" _His voice wavers.

Maggie just sniffles, a breathy cry from the baby.

Carl doesn't move.

I feel horrible.

Rick attempts to walk past Maggie but she grabs his arm, gurgles, "No – Rick, _no!"_

He ignores her, dropping his gun as he reaches his son.

And Rick – well, he sobs.

Something I have never seen him do before.

Kneeling down to Carl who is still emotionless, his face crumbles, chest shaking. "Oh, no – _no, no, no! No . . ." _

Glenn goes to Maggie. The woman holds the baby close as she cries into his chest. Rick sputters, stammering words as he loses control, and falls down to the ground in a wailing heap.

Our leader has been teetering on the edge of a cliff for a while now. It was just the meaning of an eruption to happen for him to lose his balance.

And this is it.

* * *

**Hey, guys, so I have a little announcement to make. Recently, I have been working on a little prequel to this series that contains some snapshots of what exactly happened over the time skip between seasons two and three. **

**If you want to check it out it is titled: "Winter".**

**Thanks. :)**

**~ Rainy**


	8. Chapter 7: Youth

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 7: Youth

The baby starts to wail after Rick's sobs diminish, crying for its father. He sits up – empty – and stares out into nothing like a walker.

_Mindless: like a walker._

_Not there: like a walker. _

_Blank: like a walker._

But Rick is alive, kind of. He's alive enough.

Daryl steps forward, waves a hand in front of our leader's face, and says _Rick. _

The baby keeps going and I am not sure if a boy or girl is wrapped up in Carl's jacket. There is still blood and stuff covering its small form; whatever else newborns are decorated with when they are brought into the world. Must have been quick . . .

Carl has stumbled over to his younger sibling and Maggie hands the baby off to him. Somehow, the boy knows how to hold it and that makes me wonder. He is _– no, was –_ an only child, so am I. He knows how to hold a baby. I don't. Huh.

"Let me see the baby," Hershel says. I turn slightly to see his face pulled tight. Beth's mouth is ajar, eyes low. The prisoners are in the background.

Carl moves, heading towards us. Hershel is a vet, not a doctor, but he'll know what to do. _He'll know. _I won't, though, not me. I know nothing about babies, especially newborns. Don't know what they do, what they eat, how to take care of them, keep them alive . . . And I'm not sure how we are going to make any of that work in this world. Pure things are not found here. Just broken, bad things.

Daryl gives up on Rick – the man's gone – and comes right up with Carl, Maggie, and Glenn. "What are we gonna feed it?" What do babies even eat? Mush stuff, I guess. We can't give it dog food . . . "Got anythin' a baby can eat?"

Hershel reaches out to the newborn, gingerly unfolding the blanket from its body. "The good news is she looks healthy."

So it's a girl . . . _Oh. _That's what Carl wanted.

The older man turns away from Carl's little sister and looks to Daryl. "But she needs formula . . . and soon or she won't survive." _Formula. _That's what these babies eat, I suppose. Not mush, not dog food – but formula.

"Where are we supposed to find that?" I ask, my voice is weak. I don't have the strength to care.

Hershel looks at me – doesn't say a word – and judging by his eyes, I don't think he knows either.

But he's gotta _. . ._

_"Nope." _Daryl cuts in. "No way – not her." The crossbow is shouldered, there is some ruffling. "We ain't losin' nobody else, I'm goin' for a run."

"I'll back you up." Maggie.

Glenn adds to the list, "I'll go too."

The baby cries in between words spoken. Daryl is back to talking, "Okay, think where we're goin'. _River –_ " He pulls me off to the side. "Kid's just lost his mom," he tells me in a whispery, low-voice. A word pops into my head. _Lori. _Daryl flicks his eyes to something over my head. "Dad ain't doin' so hot."

"I got him." I say.

He nods, quick and simple. "I gotta do this run."

"I know."

"You sure you're good?"

My eyes lock on to the blood stain smeared across his neck before they go back up to where they're meant to be. "Got to be."

Daryl puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes, "Alright . . . don't – don't pull any stunts."

I raise the corners of my mouth. It is not a real smile, Daryl and I both know that, but it is for what it's worth. "I won't."

He lets go. Straightening, Daryl touches my head while passing. "You better."

Things happen. The show gets on the road. Daryl yells orders, something about fences, gates – _vãmonos._ Movement catches my attention as Rick jumps up. The man briskly walks forward, face tight, and snatches up the axe he had abandoned for his wife. _His wife who is dead._

Maggie calls our leader's name out as he turns and goes right into the cell block without even closing the door behind him. It is no use. He's not even _there._

Daryl, Glenn, and Maggie jog off; I join the cluster of Carl, the baby, Hershel, and Beth. The gate opens and I look over to see the inmates holding it. One is scrawny and pale, the other, black and muscular.

My green eyes stay on them as I speak, broken-voiced, "I thought there was five."

_"Was." _pointedly answers Hershel, brushing the baby's forehead that has started to quiet a bit.

"Then why are they here?"

_"Forgiveness."_

The bike rumbles to life and Daryl and Maggie roar out of the courtyard. Glenn didn't go, he comes back to us.

"There's a preschool not far from here," Glenn gives away the gone-on-a-run group members positions. His hands settle on his hips. A shaky breath passes, eagle eyes scanning the area. "We should, um, we should do something about _this." _

My gaze wonders lost around the space, taking in things I shouldn't have to.

Death, destruction, loss, walkers, strangers – that belongs to the road.

But these prisoners are wearing stranger's faces _here, _and I am feeling too empty at _home. _

The air is staring to bite but I'll find the strength to keep on keeping on.

Always do.

* * *

We burn most of the bodies.

The walkers are just monsters sporting dead people's bodies so it doesn't hurt to roll them into the flames. But to watch Glenn drag a shovel out into the field and make a mark that isn't for a garden . . . that hurts _– burns – _a lot.

There is nothing left of our three family members so we just bury what we can. Carol's scarf, T-dog's fire poker, one of Lori's many flannels – it is not much because everything that was personal or had some meaning was lost long ago. We don't do funerals anymore.

I sit alone in my cell for a while. Sulking, grieving – I don't know. I just sit and cradle my bow that my hands have missed, mess around with the arrows. The baby cries for something it won't ever get, Lori, and I press the point of an arrow down into my thumb as another scream erupts and bounces off of these four walls. Either the cut is minor or I'm just not thinking about it, but I don't feel much from the weapon.

Carl's little sister's whines become muffled. I wonder if Carol would've liked her. She'd probably see Sophia in her. _Probably. _

I see Anna in dead faces sometimes. Dad and the neighborhood kids, too; sometimes even my sixth grade teacher, Miss Smith. We didn't have school very long before the turn but she seemed nice enough.

Time passes. I read. Of Mice and Men is removed from the depths of my bag and I stare at the dream-like cover of two men sitting in a field, shaded by a tree, before I pick up from where I left off. There is a full stream flowing to their left, a rabbit hiding behind a bush.

What is with these damn rabbits anyways? That Lennie guy always talks about them.

I skim through pages because my brain can't really process words right now. I just need something to keep my mind busy. I end up getting to the part where the old dog dies, shot clean in the head. I stop.

_Three people in one day._

And now a fictional dog that didn't even have a name.

The book falls to the floor, landing face down so some pages sprawl out in weird angles. It is probably going to get bent up but I couldn't care less.

Screw books and their too-happy covers. Screw old dogs and survival of the fittest.

There's a noise. I lift my head up to see Carl standing in the doorway. _Oh._

His hat is there as always and he stands with slouched shoulders, down casted eyes.

The boy comes in without uttering a word. He plops down beside me on the squeaky bed, stares at the wall.

_"I get it."_

Carl's voice cracks that out. I notice his eyes are red, then.

"I get it . . ." he repeats, sniffling and slowly bobbing his head. "I'm sorry."

No, that's what I should be saying. I haven't spoken a word, though.

So I do, "Why?"

_"My mom – " _he starts, but trashes it. "Your mom . . . I never got it; not really, anyways. I do now. It hurts."

Yeah, it does. Like your soul was ripped out of you. I swallow.

More words from Carl, "I was a jerk. To you, to my mom – I'm sorry. I – I should've just listened because now I have a baby sister and I don't – _I can't –_ "

His voice is shaking and struggling to keep balance. He stops, breathes, and then starts again, _"I shot my mom."_ Carl's scratchy voice croaks. He's looking down at his hands. "She was dead – gone – and I shot her just like Shane . . . _It was real."_

I touch his arm to be nice. "Carl – "

"I – I – I'm – " The hat tumbles off and Carl's face buries into my shoulder. I grip his arm because, well, I don't really know why. The boy's body is shaking in dry sobs, chest heaving. My own body is tense and I tell him as he mumbles things into my worn jacket,

"Don't be sorry." My voice is tiny. "We take care of our own, just what we do."

And maybe I'm not making sense of things or words right now, but it's all true.

I told Daryl that I got Carl.

Because it is truly _just what we do._

* * *

It's late when Daryl and Maggie return, for the sky is dark when the cell block door wails open, announcing their arrival.

The commotion wakes the baby and she starts crying again as Carl holds her close in one of Lori's old shirts. Rick is still down in the tombs, Glenn is out keeping watch with the inmates, and the rest of us have gathered around the circle tables. The baby's sobs make my head rattle.

Maggie calls Beth over to her and they go to a side table where we have a lantern set up. Daryl bounds down the steps, unloading his gear. The poncho lands in my lap and I slip it on, breathe in the material's scent.

Maggie is dumping the contents of her bag out. Daryl asks, "How's she doin'?"

I don't know how babies are supposed to _do_ but looking down at her writhing in Carl's grip, she could be better.

Daryl takes the baby, hushingit, and there is not much of a difference. Just a tad.

We all get up. Glenn and the prisoners walk in. My sleeves are pushed up and the poncho is scratchy against my skin, but I don't mind it. Finally, Beth hands a bottle over to Daryl and my head gets relief as the crying stops.

I don't know how Daryl knows how to hold a baby, much less feed one, but it is working. He rocks slowly and slightly, chuckles after a few moments. I lean against the wall beside Carl.

"She got a name yet?" Daryl asks. Oh yeah, I forgot about that part.

"Mmm, not yet." Carl replies, shifting. "I was thinking . . . maybe Sophia?" I remember our conversation on the farm houses' porch, when I told him he couldn't name babies after dead people. I still – I still don't know . . . they're hard blows. "Then there's Carol, too. And . . ." He sighs, twisting around. "Andrea . . . Amy . . . Jacqui . . . Patricia . . . _Anna . . ." _This gains my attention and we make eye contact. He tears away. "Or . . . _Lori – _I don't know."

It's nice of Carl to try but I couldn't live with another Anna. Not after _everything. _

The cold creeps up on me and my arms cross, bringing the poncho closer.

Daryl's eyes slide from Carl down to the baby. It's still suckling on the bottle; he's still rocking, too. _"Yeah . . . _You like that? _Huh?"_ Daryl's tone is that rare low voice that I get occasionally when we talk. He offers the name Little Asskicker because it is a good a name as any. Group members laugh, I barely crack a smile.

It's hard to look into the light when the darkness is so smothering.

Even though I told myself I wouldn't fall down again.

* * *

**Stay awesome. :)**

**~ Rainy**


	9. Chapter 8: Away

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 8: Away

The night is harder than any day ever will be.

Maybe it is because this cell block feels so empty swallowed whole by the darkness, the only sound being the baby crying because that is all it knows. One of the many times it wakes, I wonder if it knew who Lori was somehow – misses her.

But then the cries cut off, move onto muffled noises, and . . . _nothing._

Just like three of our own are gone – erased – nothing left of them. Empty cells and graves are the only reminders of what was.

Carl comes to me sometime late in the night because people need people after all. His dad is lost with the walkers somewhere.

We sit on the cold concrete floor for the bed is too smothering. There is no talking, just thoughts, and Carl ends up falling asleep with his head propped up on my right shoulder, body slumped against mine. I hate touch, but my shoulder is too numb to feel or shy away. And I don't want to move. I might deny these thoughts later on but now I am certain of them.

I don't want to move until morning – I won't.

So I stay and think about Anna, something I haven't allowed myself to do in many months.

* * *

I watch the sunrise through the slits in the barred windows after the night runs its course. I'm sitting scrunched in a ball, back against the wall, and facing the open door – I always end up this way. Carl is sprawled out on the floor – staring up at the ceiling – and he rolled over there hours ago. He has nightmares, I do, too; guess that gives us something in common besides the fact that both of our moms are gone.

The cell block comes to life with a scream as the baby starts up again. Carl goes back to his cell after a few screeches, group members leave because there is always more work to do, and I busy myself with the task of reclaiming my weapons.

Outside seems to be my only friend as I push back the red door and step out into the light. Fresh air travels through my nostrils and I just sigh because I am so, so tired. The courtyard is quiet as I walk on and I need this; to – to get _away. _Inside is _claustrophobic, _I suppose – that's a really weird word –and escape is almost impossible, except for these few moments. This is why I'm still alive, why we keep going.

There are about a dozen bodies that the flames never got to yesterday, even though it seemed like we burned a whole army, and I toe a few with my boot until I find the one I'm looking for. Dislodging the blade from the dead geek, blood squirts out of its decaying head with a squish. My knife is quickly flicked across my worn jeans, clearing the dark liquid, before I put it away. A few minutes later I come across an empty gun on the pavement and the box of bullets I brought out with me is put to good use.

After the gun is fully loaded and all of the weapons are gathered, I still don't return home. In fact, I stall like someone is watching in this ghost town of a place. I check the chamber of the gun, _twice_, test the blades of both of my knives on a finger that I don't care enough to feel, and even notch an arrow into the bow for the heck of it all. I aim like I forgot all of the steps and then slowly pick them up again – one by one.

_Think, look up, make a decision, get a grip, pull back, relax, breathe, fix those shoulders, breathe, don't be an idiot and take your finger off, breathe, go for the brain – breathe._

And in that moment as I aim at nothing and recite what I was taught over and over, I realize just how much I want to go hunting about now. How I want to freely move without being confined, how I really want, no, _need_ to get away from things. For second, for a minute, for an hour . . . I'll return home either way. A bit of time is all I need.

I am broken out of my trance by a faded snarl. The bow lowers. A group of walkers have gathered themselves at the far fence by the lake. I stare for a bit just for the sake of staring and then my eyes eventually travel to the dirt piles with wood crosses positioned smack dab in the middle of our field . . . I look away.

Maybe I'm simply losing my mind because killing is fun like tag once was and a bit of time is all I need. I'll never know.

". . . ver . . . _River!"_

This sends a jolt through my body and I whip around. Daryl is here.

My ears failed me. They didn't hear the noisy door, the approaching footfalls, or even pick up on _River _besides the tail end and a shout.

Daryl is here and my ears failed me.

Both of which I trust.

"River," Daryl tries again and he usually never says my name – unless I'm in trouble or something – so it sounds weird rolling off of his tongue. "Breakfast is ready, kid."

He sounds tired, more tired than usual. I don't say anything, not yet, but rather run my hands over the bow in my arms. As I pluck at the string, I mumble, "Not hungry."

Daryl is standing a few feet off and maybe he heard me, perhaps he didn't. The walkers gain his attention for a moment before he comes forward a bit. "Took a while to find ya . . ." he states, slowly and carefully like the word placement really matters this time. "What'cha doin' out here?"

I let the bow go, shoulder it as best I can. My green eyes wander. "I was, um, just – just gathering up."

Daryl eyes the bow I still grip tightly even though it is over my shoulder. "You got all that?"

"No." _Liar._

"Yeah . . ." he sighs out, coming to me. A guiding arm goes around me and I flinch for a second, I do. "Too bad I know you."

And as Daryl walks me back inside to a place I should like – but don't right now – he tells me that I got to eat. _Why?_ Because without food my body will fall even skinnier than it already is, like deathly skinny, and then I will become so weak that I can't do anything. And after that . . . well . . . I'll _die._

Sometimes I can't decide whether the time spent on the road, constantly running, hardened me or just made me all the more weaker.

* * *

I obtain a sad looking red plastic spoon upon entering the cafeteria part of the cell block.

And then an even sadder blob of oatmeal in a bowl is handed off to me. I'll try to at least make a dent.

I don't like oatmeal, hate the mushy substance, but you'll eat anything when you're hungry. Too bad I'm not.

Taking a seat on the steps with Daryl, I push the chalky globs around with my spoon. The baby could possibly eat this . . . it's close enough to formula, right? Beth is holding her now and she's all curled up in a pink onesie. We're gonna need a crib, a name, too. Hershel, Glenn, Maggie, and Carl sit at one of the circle tables with the baby and Beth. One of the former prisoners stands by me, Oscar is his name. The other one – Axel – I'm told is down at the generator room they cleared out this morning, trying to fix it. _Good._

Spoons clank on bowls, brief conversations happen from the table. I force myself to eat some oatmeal because Daryl is watching; wash it down with some water from my bottle. I feel like puking. That's the thing about not eating . . . your body gets so used to nothing that when you give it something it doesn't even want that. Selfless son of a bitch – _stop, River. _

Carl is looking down at his food, arms crossed. He doesn't touch it, doesn't even try to make an indent like me. The brim of the hat is low to hide his face. I stare at the boy as he stares at the outmeal. He's having thoughts, thoughts I've had before . . .

I really need to get out of here.

Daryl's foot nudges my side. _Eat; _his eyes say that. Fine. Sighing, I dig into the oatmeal harder than I should and stick a spoonful in my mouth. Gross.

_"Everybody okay?" _

I hear a voice ask that, I swear I do, but no one in here has spoken out. I start thinking I need new ears because they continue to fall short but after the voice bounces around in my brain for a second, it registers, and I recognize it as Rick. _Rick. _Oh my God . . .

The door squeals open, Rick steps through. People watch as he approaches – I do.

"Yeah, we are." Maggie replies.

In the light, I realize our leader has changed clothes, cleaned up some because the blood is absent from his skin. He looks more put together, I know inside he's not, though. I've been there.

Hershel asks about Rick and like I said, he's not okay . . . which is why he doesn't answer the question.

"Cleared out the boiler block," those are the words instead. Rick's eyes are on his son.

"How many were there?" questions Daryl.

"I – I don't know. A dozen, two dozen . . . I – I have to get back." His words are drawn out and sloppy. He's unstable.

I quickly go over in my head what exactly Rick has to get back to before I open my mouth, "Is there something down there?"

Rick shakes his head, breathes, _"No." _He reaches out to Carl, pats him on the back. "Just wanted to check on Carl," His son looks down while he does it, still has that look on his face . . . Our leader either doesn't notice or just doesn't care because after he declines Glenn's offer of help, he is over to Daryl, Oscar, and me in a few quick strides.

"Everyone have a gun and a knife?" that is the question thrown our way.

Daryl barely nods as he holds his bowl and spoon, meeting Rick's eyes. _"Yeah. _We're runnin' low on ammo, though."

"Maggie and me were planning on making a run this afternoon." Glenn is up now, a few yards behind Rick's towering form. They're going away now? Today? Hmm . . . "Found a phone book with some places we can hit; look for bullets and formula."

Daryl tells Rick information I already know. The generator room, Axel – he twists the spoon around as he talks. Rick responds with a _"Good, good." _and I grab onto the white, peeling railing, leaning into it, as he goes away as fast as he came in, the heels of his boots clicking with every step.

_"Rick!" _shouts Hershel, trying to get something, anything, because we're dying here.

The old man is answered with the slam of a rusted door.

* * *

I end up back outside after breakfast, after the rest of the bodies are burnt to a crisp. The smoke turns from black to white, my science teacher I had in the fourth grade told us it does that after its done burning. He didn't think any of us were listening; a bunch of nine-year-olds is what we were. I caught Mr. Jones' words and stored them away, though.

The fire – although dead – is still very well alive in scent and it gives off a strong aroma. _Aroma; _that's one of the latest words I took upon myself to learn. I don't know why I do this, hated school, but perhaps it is just because I'm simply curious. There are so many things I never got to see or learn or do – I only have an elementary school education. But the learning, the reading, the words – they help me when it gets quiet; saved me from the darkness a few times over.

And that's enough, I guess.

I take a big whiff of the smoke; let it sit for a second, and then huff it out. For some reason I find to like it. Is that a bad thing? _Eh._

I've been walking the fence for some time now, letting my legs carry me down the same path all of us jogged to get to this point. There's walkers, always walkers – but hey, screw 'em. That's what I say. Reaching out, I drag my left pointer finger across the chain-link as I go. Some biters find it interesting enough and chase after the limb. Some stumble, one falls over. I chuckle to myself. _Idiots._

A whistle pierces the air. I stop.

There are footsteps, I recognize them right away. Hell, I've spent enough time with these people to know who is who just by footfalls or even shoes.

The footsteps – interrupted every one or two steps by a piece of gravel being kicked – stop when they're close enough. With one last look to the geeks, I turn to face the owner.

"Why you messin' with 'em?"

I shrug. My hair is here to hide behind if need be. _Good hair. _"I don't know."

And I don't, not really, anyways. I have no clue why I do most of the things I do . . . it all just turns out that way.

"Well, leave them be." Daryl says, gripping the crossbow strap. I left my bow in my cell. "They ain't botherin' no one."

I ask, "Why?" because I don't really see why not.

"'Cause I said so."

Sucking on my teeth, I slightly roll my eyes. I drag a boot over the pebbly ground. _Yeah. Whatever. _

The cell block door wails open and I can hear it even from here because my ears decided to play nice. Glenn and Maggie step out, they have gear, and I squint in the bright sun to see them heading towards the red car, the station wagon.

"Can I go with them?" I quickly throw the question out there before second thoughts have a chance to flood in.

Daryl looks to the two, sighing. His shoulders sink a little. "Carl – "

"Needs me,_ I know." _I interrupt, my mind is racing, bam, bam, bam . . . "And I've been there for him, really I have, but . . . I – I really just need to get away for a bit. Please."

He considers it. The denial is still there, I can clearly see it in his face, eyes – everything. "I don't know, kid. That winter thing you did, the infirmary . . ."

"That's why I'm asking you. _Please." _I'm bouncing on the balls of my feet now, switching up my weight. _C'mon._

"Still not sure how I feel 'bout this,"

_"Please." _

There is a minute of nothing. Even the walkers shut up. I'm antsy, as antsy as Payton's pony when she would tie it to the fence. The trunk to the red car – which has been open for a bit – slams when Daryl finally decides to start talking again.

"Well, if they don't have a problem with it, then yeah, I guess."

I hide how I really feel because I figure it to be too childish. Instead, I settle for letting a small smile slip. Daryl appears lighter and he ruffles my brunette strands around, rubs at my neck.

He tells me to be safe, remember everything I was taught.

And I say okay because I am good.

* * *

The drive to the destination is a short twenty minutes.

Maggie and Glenn hold hands occasionally; Glenn rubs her knee at times. It's cute, I guess. Not like I've ever had a boyfriend . . .

I rest my head on the window, watch as the world goes by even though I have already seen everything worth seeing. I love car rides, always have, and this one is no different.

We pull up to a worn out place called Southern Discount, which is what the sign perched above the door reads. Trash crunches under the tires of our car; other vehicles lay around – same old, same old. I jump out right when the brakes are put on, bow in hand. The other two shortly follow after the ignition is cut off, car doors slamming and such, and I do a little sweep of the area. This was a strip mall once – abandoned now of course – and the signs hung in different windows indicate some sort of sale was going on at the time of the turn.

Not a soul is in sight. Good, good . . .

"All clear." I inform my two partners who aren't the usual, but will do for this time around.

"Yeah." agrees Maggie, walking around the dusty station wagon. Her gun is out but pointed down. She passes a sign that reads: "COLD ICE AND BEER". "Looking good."

Glenn breathes out, "Alright . . . let's take a look. River, watch our backs."

"Already on it," I declare, leaning back against the side of the car facing the street and everything else. My fingers hold the arrow in my weapon steady. A crow calls from somewhere in the trees, it actually feels like spring today – no jackets needed. Glenn and Maggie kiss – lovebirds – and she tells him it's a beautiful day as the insects make all of their noises. The two of them didn't mind me tagging along; you can always use an extra person, I suppose.

There's a snapping sound, a grunt from Glenn, and then I hear chains being pushed aside. Something squeaks and before I know it, I'm spun around, ducking because little black things are flying over my head, the flapping of their wings making a breeze hit my neck.

"Shit." I curse, but not too loudly.

_Bats. Freaking bats._

At least walkers can't fly.

So I go back to my job. I think I see something move behind one of the many dirty cars and I even squint, raise my bow, but nothing is around for miles, so I relax back on the vehicle. Sort of.

"Glenn, get that duck." Maggie is saying.

He replies after a beat, "What?"

She better be talking about a toy duck because I am not living with a real duck and a baby at the same time. I mean, I don't hear quacking; duck noises and such.

"Get that duck." the woman repeats with a breathy chuckle.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah . . . A kid growing up in a prison could use some toys."

Like I said – toy duck.

* * *

About the length of the car ride is how long Glenn takes in the store, maybe even ten minutes more, give or take.

When he comes out into the sunshine, he pants, "We just hit . . . the powered formula jackpot."

I turn to see Glenn carrying red baskets from the store, one in each hand. Today's our day. Maggie is looking relieved. "Oh, thank God – "

One of the baskets is set down so Glenn can rummage through the other, naming off what he got, "I also got beans, um, batteries, cocktail wieners, honey mustards . . ." I move around the car, letting my guard down for just a second. Everything he is listing off are useful items; win, win, win . . .

"Oh, yeah – Riv – " Glenn remembers, pulling something out. "I got you a book; don't know if it's any good, though." He tosses it to me; I catch it, skimming over the cover. Another Stephen King novel.

"Sweet." I comment. "Thanks, Glenn."

The man nods. "It's a straight shot back to the prison from here, probably make it in time for dinner." One of the car doors is open and they start loading up, I skim through some of the pages of the book, flipping through it quickly.

Maggie says she likes the quiet. Yeah, I do sometimes. Just sometimes . . . "Back there, back home – you can always here 'em outside the fence no matter where you are."

Moving the book away from my face, I take in the truthfulness of Maggie's statement. The walkers, the ghosts, the dead people – they're always there, lurking. It's hard to escape and –

"Now where's it y'all good people callin' home?"

The book drops down to the pavement with a thud. That voice isn't Glenn or Maggie's. I scramble to get my bow ready as I hear the click of a gun.

_This is why you can't let your guard down; this is why you always have to be ready, always on point, always, always, always . . ._

I run up with the other two as they aim their guns at the unknown.

And that's when the unknown takes a turn for the known when my eyes adjust to the figure standing before me.

_Merle._


	10. Chapter 9: Strangers

**I took a much needed break from writing last week, didn't even touch my laptop. There were personal matters I had to attend to and life hasn't exactly been kind these past days, so bear with me, friends, bear with me . . . **

**Setting all of that aside, cheers, to The Walking Dead returning for another season today!**

**Enjoy. :)**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 9: Strangers

This would be easy if it were a stranger, put a bolt in their head and be done with it. But it's not that. It's not a stranger because faces of the living are something you never forget.

_It's Merle. _

Merle was supposed to be dead in Atlanta. He was supposed to be gone a year ago.

But here he is with blood trickling down his face from a gash in his nose and a gun in our face. Glenn breathes his name and I shift the bow, trying to decide if I need to lower it or not. The others haven't moved an inch so I hold position.

Something flickers across Merle's face as he takes in familiar faces and the man isn't guarded anymore. Laughing a dried chuckle, he sets the handgun down on the cracked pavement.

"Wow!" Merle exclaims, straightening. He recognizes us, of course he does, and then the man holds his hands up in a surrendering manner. A dark shirt – which has been covering his right hand – slides down to reveal a metal blade where the limb should be.

His hand, his hand –

_He cut off his hand to escape that rooftop. _

Merle's undershirt is coated in sweat like he was running, but no one else is with him. Blowing out air, he takes a step forward. My grip tightens on the bow, knuckles turning white. It's hard to trust – I'm sorry, Merle, but it is – and all those tired people we drove past on broken roads this winter doesn't make it any easier.

Merle tries to lift his foot for another step but Maggie stops him, _"Hey!" _she shouts, scurrying forward. Her arms are locked and stiff around the gun handle. "Back the hell up!"

"O – O – O – Okay, okay, honey," Merle stutters out, stopping but not backing up. "_Jesus."_

He moves forward, slowly this time. My body gets stiffer, which he notices, and then stills again.

"You made it." Glenn says and his face is stone cold, eyes locked onto the target. I don't know how Merle made it, but it couldn't have been on his own, could it? Daryl said he was "one tough son of a bitch" but he probably would have bled out, and how did he even cut off his hand in the first place? So many questions – no answers. I remember when we weren't allowed to come out of the RV and I stretched the boundaries by standing at the open door. When Daryl found out about Merle he didn't seem sad, just angry, and maybe that was all there was left for his brother. But none of this is really the point here because the point is I didn't feel sad when Merle was never found and I sure as hell don't feel happy now. What I feel is an uneasiness building within my chest, crushing my insides. And I don't like it one bit.

"Can you tell me, is my brother alive?"

Glenn's eyes connect with mine. Brown on Green. I am not sure what to do here and Glenn is hard to read right now, but we should at least let Merle know about Daryl. We owe him that, I guess.

Merle tries again, "Huh?"

Breaking gaze, we both turn back to the should-be-a-stranger. His arms are still partially up and the fingers on his hands – no, _hand – _are curled in a bit. Merle does not move but I can see the shrug in him, it is written across his face.

Glenn talks, "Yeah."

Merle drawls out a breath. He looks down as his chest heaves, nods a few times while his teeth press into his bottom lip. A weight has been lifted.

_"Hey," _he looks up, reaching out. I'm listening. "You, uh, take me to 'im and I'll call it even on everythin' that happened up there in Atlanta."

Atlanta is up in Northern Georgia, while we're down here closer to the Southern parts. I'm not sure what region or town or county we're currently in, but I just know we're not anywhere near Atlanta. Hell, I've probably been in almost every square inch of Georgia and I have changed from Atlanta. I know Glenn has, too, and Maggie does not act like she did on the farm. We've all changed . . . but has Merle? I do not know.

Merle adds, "No hard feelings . . . Huh?"

Swallowing, I take a look at the blade. It's taped to some metal thing which is strapped around Merle's forearm. We did that – _us._ He could have waited, though. They went back –

Laughs from Merle cause me to move my gaze up to his blood-smeared face. "You like that?" he asks and I realize he's talking directly to me. I do not reply and he holds it up, admiring the weapon. There's blood on the blade.

Turning back to me, he beams, "Yeah! Well, um, I found myself a, uh, medical supply warehouse. Fixed it up myself," He waves it around, chuckles again. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Glenn sneaks a glance Maggie's way and then his eyes slide over to me. I take in a shaky breath. Blow out.

"We'll tell Daryl you're here, and he'll come out to meet you." Good call. Good plan.

I just want to go home.

"Oh – oh hold on." Merle moves forward and I get rigid, practically throwing the arrow in his face. "Jus' hold on,"

Glenn throws an arm out, blocking Merle from advancing any further. "Whoa! _Whoa!"_

Merle keeps saying to hold up, trying to slow down the conversation when he's really just speeding everything up. I roll a shoulder; shift my weight on the warm concrete. I need to relax because I am stiff and if that happens none of this will work right. My ears pick up on Merle stating this is a miracle. It's not, though, none of this is. It's dark and cold and violent and fearful and the world has gone to hell, that's it. Even the baby – which was supposed to be something good – had to take someone. _Even the baby . . ._

I cannot say I believe Merle when he states that we can trust him. The way he says it doesn't settle right with me and it makes my chest hurt and stomach tighten more. My palms are sweaty and I change my grip on the weapon. _Breathe. _

"You trust _us," _Glenn is saying, "You stay _here." _

There is a pause, Merle snorts, grins, and then I _know. _

It happens fast. Reaching back, Merle pulls out another shiny gun and fires. The bullet goes through the back windshield of our red Chevy, glass exploding everywhere. Diving behind our wounded vehicle, I get some glass lodged into my palms. The bow is dropped and I hiss and curse and yank the shards out. Blood spews out of the fresh wounds. There is yelling. I reach for my weapon with bloody hands and I saw Merle drop his gun, I did, but he has two damn guns like I have two knives. Of course.

I have my bow but it doesn't have much of a place in this gun show. I take out my own gun, hands stinging, and switch the safety off. There should be enough bullets. Blood is dripping onto the cement and staining the blue-and-white handicap parking spot. And just when I start looking for a person because it got quiet, I get grabbed from behind.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._

The gun clatters to the ground and my body gets pulled back. I kick and struggle, but in the end it is no use because a metal-knife-thing puts me in a headlock, pinning me down.

"You're okay, honey, you're okay." Merle mutters into my ear but it is far from that. Not even a little, not even a bit – not even at all.

My still bleeding hands latch onto his suffocating arm and I manage to choke two words out, "Let . . . go . . ."

"Could've been so easy," Something cool presses into the left side of my head and I immediately still. Everything is numb.

Glenn and Maggie appear from the front of the car and they stop in their tracks when they see the sight. Something flashes across Glenn's face for a moment before he aims his gun. Maggie's mouth hangs ajar as her gun dangles from her fingertips.

Merle's grip tightens, the gun pressing into my head further. My heart might just beat straight out of my chest. "Hey, hey, hold up, buddy, hold up!"

"Let go of her." Glenn snaps and there is no hesitation. _"Let go of her!"_

"Put that gun in the car, both of you." The man kicks my discarded gun and it slides over to my friends. "Here – put it in the car, son."

Glenn and Maggie both obey and drop their weapons through the smashed window. Picking up my gun, Glenn tosses it inside, too. I keep eye contact with Glenn as he and Maggie come back, hands up. That's all I have and I am going to hold on to it.

Merle states that we are going on a little drive, not home, but somewhere. I swallow hard and try to calm myself with Glenn's eyes.

My captor starts yelling, _"Get in the car! Glenn, you're drivin'!" _The voice chills me to the bone and I am scared, yes, I am. Merle puts his finger on the trigger, more pressure – he won't hesitate. _"Move!"_

"Don't – " Glenn holds a hand out, the only thing he can do. I try to catch my breath, keep staring into his eyes. "Okay . . ."

Both of my friends move away. Car doors slam. Merle removes the knife from my holster and then digs out the one tucked into my right boot.

"Who ya think taught Daryl that trick?" he questions, which I do not answer, and then he pushes me up. I roll into the back seat with Maggie, my hands still bloody and battered. She puts a hand on my knee, Glenn glances back through the mirror. Merle tumbles into the passenger seat, starts listing off directions.

Today was supposed to be okay and we'd be alright at the end of it. Still healing, but alright.

But the only thing needed healing now are my palms and maybe we should have just pretended Merle was a stranger.

* * *

Everything is unfamiliar.

This place, these surrounding four walls, the air – they are new.

Georgia is my home, the known. But Merle took it and made it the unknown. Damn you . . .

The lights are dim in this room. Four walls, ceiling, floor, a door, two chairs, two beating hearts, and a table – that's all there is.

When Merle brought us here, he separated Glenn and me from Maggie – I don't know where she is. Glenn and I are side by side behind the long table, our arms duct taped to wooden chairs. We can't get out if we tried. My palms stopped bleeding some time ago but that doesn't mean they do not hurt. I hold the throbbing limbs away from the arms of the chair to avoid putting pressure on them. Glass sucks.

Glenn keeps quiet so I do, too. The shadows of the room try to suffocate us whole. Our eyes meet and just before I think he's about to talk about how much we screwed up, the door squeaks open and the spell is broken. My green eyes land on Merle as the door bangs closed behind him. He has a smug look spread across his face, the heels of his boots echoing as he comes forward. I can tell he cleaned up because the blood is gone, replaced by a thin band aid spread across the bridge of his nose. Daryl's brother approaches the table and reaching his blade out, he runs it down the wood as he walks. The friction sounds like nails on a chalk board and I cringe.

The blade swipes away when it gets to the end of the table. Glenn is breathing hard and I guess I am, too, because my heartbeat is practically in my ears. I retreat my gaze down to my dusty boots.

"You don't even know why you're here, do ya?" I hear Merle question and no I don't, and I just want to go home . . . _I just want to go home._

Merle shifts, the boots skidding across the hard floor. "I didn't mean any of ya harm."

Then why'd you take us, Merle, huh? _Why? _

"I lowered my gun, but you raised yours." I dare to look up. _"Or bow," _Merle adds, eyes on me now, and I go back to hiding. "Where'd you get a weapon like that, hmm?" He pushes off the table, coming closer. "Shit – my own baby brother probably taught ya. He was always better with the little ones . . ." Merle kneels down to me, making my gaze go to him. "That's what happened, right?" I don't respond, just clench my jaw, and he puts his only hand on my left one, forcing the palm down. _"Right?" _

Hissing, I give in and nod frantically. _Get off, get off, get off. Ow, ow, ow . . ._

Merle lets off, patting my shoulder as he moves away. "Good."

"You were an asshole out there, Glenn," he says as he circles back around. "Jus' like you were on that rooftop back there in Atlanta . . . What y'all did, leavin' me up there – people wouldn't do that to an animal."

Maybe not . . . but most animals aren't complete assholes.

"We went back for you." Glenn speaks. And we did. Some people go back for their animals later on.

"Ain't you thoughtful?"

_"We did_, all of us – Rick, Daryl, T-dog – "

"Mmm, T-dog . . ." Merle remembers, moving around again. "Yeah, big ol' spear-chucker, the one I was pleadin' with."

T-dog saved me.

"Mmm-hmm, the one that dropped the key . . . Tell me where he's at; I'm sure T-dog would like to bury the hatchet."

He was a good man.

"Let bygones be bygones."

Whatever that means . . .

"He's gone." I reply, voice cracking.

"So it does speak," Merle leans in like before. I swallow. "Well, I hope he went slow – _yeah . . ."_

_"Screw you." _

"Got quite a mouth on ya, kid," Merle comes over, the blade forcing my chin up. I glare at him. "Officer Friendly ain't here this time – oh, no, no, no . . . I'd watch it if I was you." It only takes a second for the blade to be moved and for my lip to be stinging and spewing blood. I run my tongue over the metallic liquid as Merle goes away. My hands can't even move to help with the situation so I lean over, spitting out some of the crimson liquid. It stains the floor.

Merle questions Glenn now, "How 'bout the rest? Hmm?" The man settles down on the table. "How 'bout my baby brother? You can't tell me he's alive and then hold off on where he is."

Yes, we can because we're not telling Merle jack. Glenn looks away and I follow, sucking on my busted lip.

"No? Well, maybe the farmer's daughter will help me out."

Merle attempts to get under Glenn's skin. He talks about Maggie, runs the blade over my friend's face, and then stops after no reaction.

"I remember you." he stares into Glenn's eyes. Then, his gaze flicks to me, "I remember you, too." Back to Glenn: "You're the sneaky one, the one with nerve." And me: "And you're the quiet one. Ain't so quiet now, though,"

He puts the blade on Glenn. "You both don't scare easy, do ya?" Leaning in, he breathes in our faces, _"I like that."_

Merle walks behind us and then he grabs Glenn's forehead, puts the blade in his mouth. All I can do is watch. "Now, I wanna know where my brother is."

He starts to put pressure on the weapon, pulling back on Glenn's head. He is hurting him, I can tell, so I yell, "Merle, stop!"

Fortunately, he does stop and releases Glenn. Back in our faces is where he goes. "I wanna know where the Sheriff is!" Glenn head-butts him and Merle stumbles back, gripping his nose.

I make eye contact with my friend once more. He swallows. Merle faces us and his nose is dripping fresh blood again; the wound opened back up.

He hits the table, shouts, _"Martinez!"_

Martinez? Who – who is that?

The door flies open and a man with a backwards hat hustles in. He speed walks over to me and quickly cuts the tape off. I look at Glenn, Merle is laughing, and then he punches him. _He punches Glenn._

I'm being dragged away, Merle hits Glenn again.

I start struggling, fighting with everything I got. Screaming as Merle continues his assault on someone I consider a brother, _"No! Stop! Glenn! Stop! No!"_

I get forced out the door. _"Glenn! Glenn! Glenn!"_

The stranger just keeps dragging me until I can't hear the sounds of Glenn getting beat to a bloody pulp anymore.

* * *

**This chapter was supposed to be longer but I think I'll end it here for now.**

**Anyway, I just wanted to give you guys a huge THANK YOU because the amount of love this whole writing thing is getting is insane! Thank you all so, so, so, so much because it makes what I love doing so much better. **

**Have a great life. **

**Love you all.**

**:)**

**~ Rainy**


	11. Chapter 10: Dying

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 10: Dying

There is a time and place where you give out, a time and place where you let the darkness come and trample right over your tired body.

And this is that time and place.

I lay sprawled out on the cold floor of an empty room with four walls and a roof. There is no table now, no chair; I'm not even bound. Just me, my achy hands, ugly scars, and blood-filled mouth.

It got quiet long ago . . . Or maybe I just accepted that I am going to die. Reality sucks, karma's a bitch, we were dealt shitty cards – yeah, I get it. We always pull the short straw, don't we? There is one light source in this room dangling from the ceiling like a fancy earring. I'm on my sore back and my eyes watch the object slowly swing back and forth.

_Jus' when I thought you was wisin' up . . . Now look at ya, lyin' on the ground like used rubber. _

Hi, Dad.

_You're dyin' here. But you know that, don't'cha? _

"So?" I question the ceiling. "Good a day as any."

_You never would've made it anyways. Too much of a coward._

"Shut up." I spit, sitting up. This causes me to choke on some blood resting in my mouth and I go into a coughing fit until I can see the crimson liquid spilling on to the floor.

_Don't let the world spoil you, honey._

Mom.

_Remember who the enemy is. _

Somehow, I have collected enough strength to climb to my feet. My ears pick up on noises outside. _Voices._

"Why can't J interrogate her? That's his line of work, anyhow." a stranger talks. I don't know who "J" is. Maybe Jay like the name – doesn't matter.

"You heard Governor," that's Merle. "'Sides, she's just a kid. Won't hurt ya none."

_You're okay. _Still Mom.

I'm okay.

_You good?_

I will be, Daryl.

The steel door opens and Merle appears with a chair. He sets it a few feet away, I glare at him. Then, Merle is gone and in walks a nerdy-looking guy with round glasses. _Great. _

The door slams shut and the new man approaches. He has a plate in one hand, clipboard in another; looks nervous but I don't know why. I swallow; eyeing him as he puts the plate on the chair. He holds the clipboard, clicks the pen attached to it. "Hello." he greets and I realize he was the same person questioning Merle out in the hall. "My name is, uh, Milton. I'm – "

"They're gonna kill him, right?" I interrupt because I could care less if his name is Milton or Mark or Matthew or _whatever_. They have Glenn, Maggie, too, and that's all that matters.

Milton peers over the clipboard. "I do not believe their intentions were to that extreme with the concerns of your friend."

_"Family." _I correct. "And there were two of them, not just one . . ." I have no idea where Maggie is and Glenn, well, he wasn't doing so well. I look straight into his eyes. "They're dying. I am, too._ But you already know that."_

"I – I do not know."

Of course you don't.

Milton adds, "And I am terribly sorry for that but I have some questions I was instructed to ask you."

"I'm not playing." I turn around. Stare at the back wall. Maybe the walls will close in and suffocate me until there is nothing left. Until I don't matter. Until I won't have to be questioned.

"Yes, you are." I look to him, quirk an eyebrow. "And you _will. _This – this could mean life or death for both you and your . . . 'family'."

I move back around.

He gestures to the plate. "I brought you a sandwich,"

"You trying to bribe me?"

Milton shrugs. I won't eat, I know that.

"What's your name?" he asks. I think about lying. I think about a lot of things, actually, but then my real name slips off my tongue so there's no hiding there.

"How old are you?"

"Thirteen." I answer, staring at the door to hide my shame. _Can't believe I'm doing this –_ "Give or take."

Milton scribbles some notes down on the pathetic clipboard. "Your name is interesting . . . any reason for that?"

"What?" That can't be part of the questions.

The clipboard falls to his side. "Well, I'm the middle child. My older sister was Molly; my younger brother, Michael. My mother favored the letter 'M'."

I go to the thoughts running in my head. Not all of them are bad. "My mom just liked nature, I guess."

"I see . . ." He doesn't write anything down. "And her name?"

My eyes retreat. "Why're you doing this?"

_This. This _as in: why are you here? _This _as in: how are you still alive? _This _as in: what does it matter?

And this is Milton's answer, "For research, mostly," He fixes his glasses. "And loyalty – seems to me that is how most of us get by these days."

Doesn't have to be unless you change.

"Let me ask you something, River," he starts, and I hate the way strangers say my name, "Have you ever wondered if those _things _are the cage holding back what that person once was? Is?"

_We're all infected._

"I try not to think about it." Because if I do I won't be able to breathe; won't be able move.

Won't be able to kill.

Just die.

I'm dying now.

"Fair enough," Milton answers. I guess it is, isn't it?

Milton asks about where our camp is at. I say we were just passing through – not even from around here. I tell him that we have a whole lot of muscle, that we have ammunition, that they can track . . . And the more I talk, the more I start to believe it myself.

After everything, I ask Milton who the Governor is but he doesn't reply.

I don't want to know the name of the person I'm going to kill anyway.

* * *

Martinez stands at the door for a little bit. I can see the shadows of his figure from under the object, can hear him fidgeting around, mumbling things. We all talk to ourselves.

And then – after minutes and minutes pile onto each other – he leaves.

There is no chair anymore because Martinez took it away. He did, however, leave the plate. Closing in, I swipe off the pitiful ham and cheese sandwich from the plate, and it flops to the floor. My hands run over the plate – it's glass alright – and my palms are probably stinging, but I can't feel. _Probably. _

No handbook was ever created for killing people and I realize this as I smash the object into the wall, breaking it into many pieces. There's no right way, not exactly a wrong way either.

My fingers find a shard.

I've never killed a person before; someone who _mattered. _Just walkers or _people trapped in cages, _as Milton put it.

A thirteen-year-old girl should never have to do this.

There are footsteps sounding in the hall I've never seen and I guess someone heard.

I just want to go home.

Martinez bursts through the door and he's not who I really want to kill, but he's still _a person._

So I lunge.

_Red. _There's so much red. Red on Martinez's face, red on my palms, red in my eyes –

I don't hear anything, I don't feel anything, and I don't even think I'm still alive until my body is thrown against a wall. My head is fuzzy.

Martinez isn't dead.

And neither am I.

I stare into his brown eyes, head splitting. He looks hurt and I feel bad and then I can't see anymore.

I'm being moved again but I don't know where.

Probably to my grave.

* * *

A door squeals open, I can see again, and then I'm tripping over my two numb feet.

Another room. Another hard floor.

I get swept up and dragged into a warm body. The door slams and the aftermath of the action echoes, ringing in my ears. I try to fight the arms holding me close but I can't. I don't even feel _here. _

Buried deep within all of the strangers, I find something familiar, _"River . . ."_

_"Glenn – " _I choke out, wrapping my arms around him. My eyes feel wet as I bury myself into his shoulder; breathe in the scent I _know. _I hate hugs and getting close but this feels more right than wrong. It feels – it feels like _coming home,_ just a little bit. _Just a little, tiny bit . . ._

I talk into his shoulder, "You're here."

"And so are you." Glenn replies.

"I thought – " _No. _

"So did I."

Pulling away, we get a good look at each other.

"Your cheek is bleeding." he says, wiping something cool off my burning skin. I hiss. _"Sorry."_

Glenn is bad . . . He's really, really bad. His face – oh my God, his face . . . Black and blue and purple and red –

"Your whole face is bleeding." I reply. More realization dawns and I want to collapse right here and now. "Glenn, we screwed up."

_"Yeah," _he breathes, "I know." I notice a sharpened piece of wood wrapped in duct tape beside him, then. Looking further back, my eyes spot a shattered chair, overturned furniture, more blood – _a body._

"Glenn, what – "

He ignores my wandering eyes and question, stands up and asks, "Have you seen Maggie?"

"No." Glenn pulls me to my feet as I answer. "I was alone."

Bending down, he slowly picks up the makeshift weapon. I know it hurts. I'm in pain, too.

But that doesn't matter.

Glenn claims he has a plan, a way out. And I want to know what happened in this place, but then the door opens, my stomach dropping, before words can get to me.

The weapon is in Glenn's grasp as he steps in front of me. He is poised and ready to go.

Merle comes in, Martinez behind him.

I am frozen, breathing hard as my throat clenches.

Merle holds out a hand to Glenn's striking stance. "Uh-uh,"

Martinez points the gun at us.

A man I've never seen before drags a girl in. _Maggie. _

Maggie isn't wearing a shirt.

My jaw drops.

Glenn lunges but Martinez just points his weird looking gun at Maggie, who is trying to cover herself up. Glenn drops the wood and it clatters to the ground.

Things happen. I'm pushed to my knees and so is Glenn. Maggie is scooted over to the side, forgotten and exposed. My eyes glue themselves to the floor and I can't decide if I am scared or not. I ought to be, though.

Because this is it.

The man paces back in forth between these four walls, the heels of his boots clicking on the hard floor with each step. The sound echoes, bounces, until it is swallowed up. I watch his worn boots as he goes; my blood-filled mouth is open as labored breaths of air travel in and out of it. My face stings, my eyes feel wet, and a blood droplet falls down from my cheek and stains the floor.

The boots still and so does my heart for a moment, but I refuse to look up. You would think someone would want to know what their killer looks like, but no, not me. This man doesn't deserve any words from my lips, much less my eyes.

"We're done playing games." he says, but I don't think I am. I'm pretty sure I could go for another round of hide and seek. I hide the information everyone is so desperately searching for and they try to seek it – drag it out of me – little do they know I'll never tell . . .

The boots are back to moving and this time they come for me. His shadow looms over my crumpled form, swallowing me up like this room swallows his footfalls after a brief hesitation. His fingers find my chin and they force my stiff head up.

I stare death in the face, green on green, and then the man opens his mouth to speak once more. "Now, you're gonna give up where your camp's at."

My eyes move over his shoulder to the two people behind him – _his people –_ with their smug looks and deadly weapons. They would die for this man right here, I know that, and I will die for my family both with me now and back home.

Lazily, my gaze slides back over to the person gripping me with his cold stare. "No can do . . . _mister."_ I spit, my tongue gliding over the blood that has settled in my mouth, and I can taste the metallic liquid there.

He lets go of me, backs up a few feet, and then his gun is out; a shiny revolver. Quickly, he takes three strides forward and closes the distance between us. The revolver presses against my forehead, it feels cool against my burning skin, and I realize that this is the first time I've ever looked down the barrel of a fully loaded gun.

The gun clicks. "So unwise . . ." the man mutters to me.

This is where I will die.

I will die in a smothering room with a man I don't know and in a place I'm unfamiliar with. Bruised and bloody, I will go out quickly like turning off a light. _Alone _– I will die alone even though there are others in here with me.

You always face death alone.

I think about the rest of my family back at that safe haven I never gave up as the man pulls the trigger.

* * *

**Heyyyyyy, would you look at that! We're all caught up with the prologue! Sweet! :D**

**I'm doing a bit better so thank you all for the support. You guys sure know how to make my day.**

**Until next time . . .**

**~ Rainy**


	12. Chapter 11: Killer

**This chapter is kind of a celebration (even though it was yesterday) of my one year anniversary of being on this site! Whoot! It's been an incredible year, you all have been so kind and supportive, and I do not regret joining this site at all.**

**Let's keep on going for another year and many more to come. :)**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

_"We must be killers, _

_Children of the wild ones."_

_~ Mikky Ekko: We Must Be Killers_

* * *

Chapter 11: Killer

I've always wondered if death hurt.

Not the thing that causes death, for I know that is painful as hell, but the slipping away part.

One of my earliest memories of the old world include running around in my rectangular backyard, chasing a yellow butterfly. I couldn't have been more than five and the long blades of grass tickled my feet as I ran. It was a late summer afternoon and Mom and Dad were watching on the patio . . . _happy _and – and _laughing._ I can only guess that the concrete wasn't cracked yet and the garden Mom used to love so much was still intact and not devoured by weeds. The butterfly stopped to take a rest after a few minutes and that was when I reached out to touch it. One of its wings fell off when contact was made. I cried and cried because I killed the dang butterfly – they can't live without two wings – and my parents tried to explain that these things happen.

_Why? _Because it's nature and things die so others can grow.

I still asked _why_ even though I really didn't care.

All I cared about was that I hurt the butterfly and it was probably in pain, fading out slowly somewhere.

Only animals don't talk so I never knew if that was true.

Darkness lies everywhere. There is nothing else but it. I am scared and alone and lost and gone –_ yeah_ – but I don't feel pain.

It doesn't even hurt at all.

The only problem is that I am trapped in a box of darkness with no light source around. I don't like being locked up or confined; that leads to panic attacks. I want to go into the woods, need to be far, far away where everything is truly _good _and I can practice what I was taught by hunting squirrels and rabbits; deer if I'm lucky.

A clicking sound reels me back in and then _I feel it. I feel it all._

I feel the muzzle of the gun and runaway blood trails and pain and emptiness. I also can feel the light burning my eyes as they open; blinking down at my arms reminds me what the world has done to me.

My killer retracts the revolver. He thumbs the chamber, sliding it over one spot, and then it is locked into place again. I find myself staring down the barrel once more and my body stiffens. I'm already the walking dead, so just pull the trigger, stranger, and I'll float up into the air.

He does.

More clicking.

I'm still here.

"Most not be fully loaded," the man observes with some humor added to his tone. He flicks the chamber over another slot. "Third time's a charm, eh?"

Maggie gives in,_ "The prison." _she slurs, shuffling forward while still covering herself. Merle doesn't let her get any closer and I stare wide-eyed at the woman.

Why'd you have to do it, Maggie? I was gonna . . . I was gonna . . .

_You were gonna die is what. She just saved your ass._

"The one near Nunez?" Merle asks and I don't – I don't even know. Whatever part of Georgia we stumbled into is where it's at.

Martinez states that our home is overrun. And it was, it really was, but we took it and it was ours and don't take it away, please, don't. _Please don't hurt them._

"We took it." more truth from Maggie.

The man isn't shoving the gun in my face anymore but it is still there. He talks to Maggie, "How many are you?"

"Eleven . . . We have eleven now."

"Eleven people cleared that whole prison of biters?"

We had more.

I'm forced to look at him again, gun on my chin now. "Is this true? _Huh?"_

I give him a hard stare before I answer, "Yes."

He nods, rolls his tongue over his bottom teeth. "Good . . . good . . ."

And then he is backing away, the gun is gone. Maggie gets pushed to Glenn. She cries into his embrace and he just holds her close because that is all he can do. You can't take away the pain, it still stays.

The door slams shut.

My stunned body decides to stop functioning again and I fall back onto the floor.

Maggie's sobs haunt my mind.

* * *

Glenn and Maggie join me on the floor minutes later, our backs against the wall. Maggie wears his shirt and she claims that she's okay; how they barely touched her. I stare down at my palms as she talks because they are torn to hell. My head still pounds. The only good thing is the cuts on both my lip and cheek have stopped bleeding for the most part.

"All this time runnin' from walkers – " Maggie sniffles. "you forget what people do . . . _have always done." _I forgot for a little while and yeah, I'll admit to it, too. When you're with good people and it's just us and walkers, it is hard to remember what was. My eyes travel to the blood smeared all over Glenn, the shaking Maggie – _what still is. _

"I had to do it," Maggie is saying to me, "I couldn't just let it happen."

She had to give up our family and our home. At first I was just a tad bit upset, but those feelings are long gone now. They are as far away as that Stephen King novel Glenn found for me at the "jackpot store" or my bow. I can't even feel that happiness anymore.

And so I say, "I get it."

"I guess it would be the same way with Beth, y'know? I mean, God – look at what they did to the two of you,"

Glenn says it doesn't matter.

"I tried to fight back." I tell them, toying with the shoelace on my left boot that was once tighter. "I had a glass shard, I was gonna do it, but then it was just over . . . That was _it." _

The body that has been here since I was returned to this room lies lifeless in the back corner. It _was_ a walker; Glenn told Maggie that when she asked, and Merle threw it in while a member of my family was still duct taped to a wooden chair. _Son of a bitch . . ._

It's a wonder he's Daryl's brother.

Everything is supposed to get quiet, then, but Glenn doesn't let it. Pushing off the wall, he stands with a groan. I watch from the floor as he stumbles over to the dead walker, his body crumbling into itself. He clutches his side as he kneels down – might have a broken rib or something, can't be sure, though Hershel would know. I miss the old vet. I miss him and Daryl and Carl and Rick and Beth and even – even the wailing baby. Or Little Asskicker. But that's what Daryl called her so it hurts . . . The prisoners weren't that bad either.

I don't really think they're coming anymore; can't really track a car.

Glenn's hands find the long-gone biter's arm and his boot presses down on its chest. And in two painful tugs, that arm comes off the body; all slimy and rotten and bloody and _dead_ . . . I was supposed to be the dead one.

I'm on my feet with Maggie. None of us speak as Glenn breaks the arm by repeatedly stomping on it. I could do that, for I have enough anger to, but my legs are too stiff and numb to move. Glenn digs out the bones in the forearm – I don't know what they are – and I can't help but scrunch my face up at the sight.

"River?" he says my name in a steady tone. It carries over his shoulder, but he doesn't look at me because that would hurt too much.

_"Yeah – "_

He turns slowly, setting something hard in my hand. "Remember when I said I had a plan . . ." his voice dies off.

I look down to see a sharp bone – which has been mostly cleaned off – resting in the messed up palm of my hand.

Glenn finishes, "They should be back soon."

_We've all done the worst kind of things just to stay alive._

Yeah, Rick, we have.

My green eyes glide to the door.

_We will._

* * *

Three men return, but Merle is the only one I recognize.

Glenn takes them all by surprise when he bursts through the door, pushing the danger back. Maggie and I advance in quickly as the plan goes into action. She slams a guy with brown hair up against the steel wall, shoving the pointy end of the bone into his neck. He screams in agony as blood spews everywhere and that is when I kick the other man – the one with sandy blonde hair – in the knee because I'm not big enough to face him head on. The man falls to the floor and my hand shakes as I push the bone into his neck like Maggie did, trying not to think about it too much. I turn away slightly and squeeze my eyes shut as the blood coats my hands and the struggling and yells of pain from my victim begin. I've never killed someone before and I didn't know this man, but someone_ did_ – they had to.

I feel his hand grip onto one of mine that are wrapped around the bone.

Merely hours ago, I was on my knees about to get a bullet in my head from a shiny revolver. The man – my killer – was too proud and sure of himself for his own good. My ears have picked up on the title "Governor" floating around the halls and maybe that is his name, perhaps not. The point is, though, this time around I'm the killer.

And that terrifies me.

_I'm sorry._

I add more pressure onto the wound, afraid he might have enough strength left to push me off.

_I'm sorry. _

My head turns to him and I just watch as the life slips out of the man. It's so scary and I don't like it one bit that I can pinpoint the exact moment he takes his final breath, mouth ajar and eyes just _staring _at me.

_How could you?_

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

His hand falls from my wrist and I kick his lifeless body away. His blood stains my hands, all of the red. _My _kill, _I _did this, _me, me, me . . . _

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

I am a killer.

Gunshots ring out and I drop down even though I am not sure what is happening. Both Glenn and Maggie are on the ground, Merle is, too. He's still alive. Merle grabs Glenn and pins him down and I try to do something, but I come up with nothing. This is where Maggie steps in, though, and she grabs the gun that was once firing – aims it at Merle. He has the blade on Glenn's throat.

"Let him go!" she screams as the gun clicks. I get to my feet, heat racing and head buzzing.

Merle's eyes wander, he says okay. A tiny twinge of hope goes through me but it disappears when I can feel a gun digging into the back of my head.

And so we lose the game again.

The three of us are dragged back into the room and shoved onto our knees. There are more people than ever in here.

I think it really is game over this time.

Merle circles us in his usual cocky gait, "Glad we could catch up . . ." His voice is drawn out so I can hear him until the circle is complete. I take a deep breath, chest aching. My thoughts that usually spiral down into nothing take refuge in the good section of my head.

_"The story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their lands on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way from exposure and disease and starvation. A lot of 'em just disappeared. So the elders, they said a prayer – asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits, give them strength and hope. The next day the rose started to grow where the mothers' tears fell."_

_"So this one bloomed for my mom, then, huh?"_

_"Yeah."_

A sack is shoved down over my head. Everything becomes dark again.

_"Big Dipper." _

My arms get yanked forward and I feel something sticky start to wrap around my wrists, bonding them together. Duct tape.

_"I couldn't find it for a while, but I got it now."_

The memories get yanked away as I'm pulled to my feet. _Poof._

Barking orders from strange voices, "On your feet – move!"

I trip over a foot since my vision is absent, get pushed forward by someone else. "Come on, let's go!"

If only I could see, you know? I have to bite my tongue to hold that one in . . .

Every step is frantic and feels misplaced. My vision is gone, most of my feeling, too – key factors in being a hunter. And then my hearing disappears for a second, too, as an explosion goes off. This knocks me off of my feet, nobody forces me back up, and there goes my breathing as smoke fills up my lungs.

I get grabbed as the whole room goes into a coughing fit and I try to fight back, but I can't even breathe.

The sack is removed. It feels like submerging from being underwater. My vision blurs from the smoke but I can still make out the face in front of me to be Daryl. He cuts the duct tape with a quick swipe.

_Wait . . . Daryl? _

He helps me up, leads my broken body away. I don't understand and there is no time to either because before I know it, we're outside and the night air feels cool on my skin. We jog down a street, like a street in an actual town, and the buildings look how they did before everything. This can't be real . . .

Oh, but it is. It is because here is Rick with Glenn and Maggie, and Oscar in his blue jumper. They came for us; they saved us – but how? They couldn't have known, shouldn't of.

But they did.

A door is opened and I'm through it before I even realize. Glenn falls to the floor in a heap with Maggie. I don't examine the room like I usually do. Daryl had me the whole way from the torture chamber and he doesn't let go of me now. He quickly looks over my bruises and cuts with a grazing thumb. There is not much time. When his eyes settle on my palms, though, he twitches and reaches back to pull out a red rag from his pocket.

Daryl asks, "Which one is dominate?"

I think for a second. "Right."

He goes to work and swiftly wraps the material around my right hand, covering the sensitive skin. A gun much like the one that was supposed to end my life is nudged into my wrapped hand. I can barely look at it. "Might have to shoot, don't know yet,"

I don't reply because in the rush of everything, I managed to catch a glimpse of something. Something – or someone – is lurking in the back; not completely important but still _there._

I think I am seeing ghosts.


	13. Chapter 12: Ghosts

**It's been a while.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 12: Ghosts

My eyes do not leave the darkened figure. I blink but it doesn't go away. Do ghosts diminish in a blink of an eye? Are they even real? Is this?

"Ain't no way out back here," Oscar says this, poking around in the back of the building, and I am trying to understand, trying to collect my bearings.

_Where am I?_

A solid voice in my ear, _"River." _

My head twists to the voice – my name – and it is Daryl. His eyes tell a story of misunderstanding and concern, and for once he doesn't _know. I don't know._ People talk, ask how we were found. Glenn's hurting real bad. Questions remain unanswered and something about a woman, I don't know a woman without a name.

Daryl touches my arm, soft voice, _"Hey,"_

Where's the screaming and yelling and fighting and pain?

Looking away, I try to find the smothering walls and swaying light. Rick goes to the window and peers through the blinds with a bent finger. A commotion is coming from the dim lighting outside, shouting and running – there it is.

The ghost in the corner moves and I freeze. Did I die . . . did I actually die? Was the trigger really pulled because as the ghost's body hits the moonlight seeping in through the cracks in the blinds, all of the pain collides into me. Is this hell? Am I being taunted with familiar faces and safe touches for a reason? Will they be slaughtered soon? Will I?

No, I am dead. This person is so I must be, too.

A ghost of the past stands before me.

I stand up on shaky bones and Daryl's hand slips away. Colliding with the other body, I sob into its shoulder – _her shoulder. _We're in hell, this is hell. That sign on the Exxon gas station my eyes laid upon in those dark winter days was right. My tears are dry and the sobs aren't really sobs, just hiccupping gasps of air. I never died and neither did she. Her heart is beating and so is mine. I pull back to get a look. She is older and skinner and appears just like all the other survivors. She is a product of this world, all of us are.

Her brown eyes are taking me in too, and my lip twitches as I whisper in an exhale of air, "Payton . . ."

_Payton. Payton, Payton, Payton. Old world Payton. She's here, she's alive. _

She smiles a tight-lipped smile with watery eyes. "I thought – damn."

Payton thought I was dead. I was certain she was dead.

But here she is.

"Yeah." I reply, eyes retreating down. What else am I supposed to say?

Payton has a gun and a bunch of knives hang down from her belt. The mop of black curly hair she has hangs down from a ponytail and is frazzled. Payton's face is dirty, a little blood here and there. Cuts and scratches mark her skin, too. And I realize in that moment that I don't know her – what she's done, what she's been through. But she doesn't know me either, so it is clean slates for both of us.

Something colder than my skin is running down my cheek and I touch it. Daryl's rag clings tightly to my right hand but the left one is covered in gashes. The cool substance on my face is blood and it's on my fingers now. Twisting my hand in front of my eyes, I remember. Broken glass, knife blade, plate shard, smug faces, barrel of a gun, sharp bones – it was like a chain reaction._ Merle – _

"Daryl, this was Merle." Glenn announces from the floor as Maggie wraps a dull, blue sweatshirt around him. He swallows and Daryl falters. "It was. He did this to me," He gestures to me while wincing, "and _her." _

"You saw him?" asks Rick, still up by the windows.

"Face to face," Glenn struggles to get his arms through the sweatshirt sleeves. "Threw a walker at me, was gonna execute us."

Daryl's eyes flick to me and then he shuffles closer to Glenn, riffle cradled in his arms, "S – So my brother's this Governor?"

"No," Payton steps forward. "He's like his lieutenant or something." I still don't know how Payton got here or who she even is now, but the others do not seem bothered. Is she one of us?

Daryl's attention is turned away from the ghost from the past and back to Glenn, "Does he know I'm still with you?" Yes, because Daryl is family and Merle is not.

"He does now." answers Glenn.

_"The prison."_

"Rick, I'm sorry; we told them where the prison was, we couldn't hold out."

Rick holds an arm out to Glenn's babbles, _"Don't. _No need to apologize."

I missed Rick.

Our leader scrambles back over to the windows, peeking outside again. Oscar moves up and takes another window that is covered with a sheet instead of plastic blinds. My people make me feel safer but the noises outside are unsettling.

"They're gonna be lookin' for us," Maggie states. She's right. We're a threat now and none of us are dead.

Rick nods, breathing hard out of adrenaline, "We have to get back." Eyes move to Glenn, "Can you walk?"

Glenn claims he can walk and Rick says that they have a car a few miles out. He and Maggie help Glenn's battered body up and I back up to make room.

"Hey, if Merle's around, I – I need to see 'im." Daryl comes forward, moving in front of Oscar, Payton, and I so he can be face to face with Rick. I wipe the blood off my lip, look at my palms. Merle's blood to Daryl and I get that. But I also know that if someone were to receive the wrong type of blood they could die. Not all blood is good for you.

Rick releases Glenn and Maggie steadies her boyfriend. "Not now. We're in hostile territory."

"He's my brother. I ain't gonna – "

"Look at what he did!"

I stop listening because if my ears keep tuning in, the urge to cut into the conversation will grow. The last thing they need is a thirteen-year-old kid speaking her mind. Slowly and carefully, I peel back the sheet serving as protection to the outside world. Light from fires hit my eyes first. The flames spring out from various barrels lining what looks to be an actual paved street. Trash is nowhere to be found and the vegetation looks clean cut. There are put together buildings, houses and stores among them. A group of heavily armed people run down the street. I move away from the window. What the hell is this place?

"It's a town." Payton sides up to me, speaking in a quiet, dull-toned voice, "People live here but actually _live."_

I thought civilization was dead.

"Welcome to Woodbury."

* * *

We go out on the street with intentions to tear it up.

But it is a nice street.

Rick doesn't care and neither does Daryl, Oscar does not even think twice. My group has a reputation of taking pure things and destroying them. We left a bloody church, a farm in ashes. And I guess we'll leave behind a smoking town, too, because the clock struck zero. Two smoke bombs sail through the air and they hit the asphalt with a _ping._ No longer is the air pure and a cloudy substance hisses out from the cans. My gun is in my wrapped hand, ready if need be – Payton is at my side. Daryl told me to stay close and I am going to do exactly that as we head out, guns blazing. The night is quiet with cool, smoky air.

The smoke was supposed to conceal us. It was supposed to be a source of protection.

Through the smoke, I can see guards at the end of street. They stand on tall buses and whirling around, their flashlights hit us. _"There they are!"_

The smoke bombs failed.

We run down the street packed tight like a herd of cattle. The last time I saw real cows was at the farm. Dale died in a –

_Stop._

Cow pasture.

_Stop!_

Daryl, Oscar, and Rick line Glenn, Maggie, Payton, and me, covering us. Gunshots go back and forth like a conversation. _BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM –_ they sound out of place here. People are yelling and shouting and screaming at one another, but I don't see the point to it when it all runs together. It is just how battles go, I guess.

A bullet from one of the guards flies and whizzes past my ear. I do not jump, do not react. No time. There's never time. My left ear stings and feels blown out – ringing. I touch the lobe and my fingers come back bloody.

Daryl was watching and aiming at the guard, he shoots him down. Anger kills.

The guards are all dead now. Blood stains the pavement. Our chance is here, our way out. Dr. Jenner was the last person to give us one. But then he burned, Jacqui burned, too. They could have gotten out with the rest us.

But they didn't want to live anymore.

Shots from behind me sound. Daryl grabs my arm and swings me around so he's in front of me.

He shouts a warning, "Behind you!"

The smoke makes it so I can see figures but not faces – outlines of people. I don't know who is who – besides Daryl because he is close – but I can tell the others are around. A line of people, who I guess you can call the Governor's people, are attempting to flank us. They are hidden behind benches and buildings and park-like trees, and we've got nothing. Our backs are against the wall.

But Rick – Rick is _here _and not lost in the tombs. He has a plan. He tells us to run over to the right where there are buildings, seek cover there.

So we do.

All of us meet up at the door of a store. The walls dip in here and shield us. Daryl reloads after quickly checking my ear, the bullet just clipped it. The Governor's men are relentless; bullets keep ricocheting off the brick wall and surrounding objects.

"How many?" yells Rick over the BOOMS and BANGS.

Oscar replies, "I didn't see," That means a lot, then. You know when there is one or two – a handful.

"Don't matter," Daryl cuts in, "There's gonna be more of 'em. We need to move."

My ear is still ringing and it's hard to catch the words. I try snapping my finger right beside it. Nothing.

God dammit.

Gunfire continues. The shooters move closer and something about grenades is said. Payton leans around the wall, pulls the trigger twice. BANG, BANG!

Daryl says he will lay down some cover fire. I don't know how to feel about that and neither does Maggie because she claims we have to stick together.

"Too hairy. I'll be right behind ya."

My good ear is sensing the quick approach of danger. We have hit a few of them but every shot at us has been a miss. A bullet smacks the wall beside Oscar. I flinch. Their no kill streak will not keep up if we stay here.

Gritting her teeth, Maggie shoots at them much like Payton did. Things still for a moment. Daryl and I meet eyes, I nod. _Good._

Back to running we go as another smoke bomb explodes.

My lungs burn and eyes water, but I push on. Oscar leads the five of us – him, Payton, Maggie, Glenn, and I – to one of the buses as Rick and Daryl continue the gunshot song. At least, that is what it sounds like . . . echoing booms sounding like a choir. Oscar, still in his blue prison jumper, climbs up on the hood of the bus. The smoke has thinned out a bit and they see us now. Maggie and Payton let bullets fly when the time is right; sparks ignite in the gun muzzles. Glenn is low to the ground and I consider joining the gun fight, eyes traveling to the gun I've never removed from my hand decorated in red. But then Oscar's arm is extended, reaching for me.

"C'mon, kid." he says loud enough that even my bum ear can hear. Shoving the gun away, I give him the better hand of the two and he pulls me up. Being on the bus makes me unbalanced and dizzy. My head took quite a beating earlier and it seems to be getting to me as Oscar pushes me from the hood up to the way top part of the vehicle. I land on my stomach and start crawling, taking my handgun back out in the process. I feel exposed up here and I do not like it, not one bit.

Glenn's body reaches the hood.

And that's when the gunshots cut off.

First my people stop and then the bad guys do, too.

A hush falls over this town, this _Woodbury. _

And it couldn't be any more unsettling.

I can hear my own heavy breathing as I hold my gun close. The ringing and pounding in my ear has lessened. Nobody moves.

Until somebody does.

A man with a shotgun emerges from the depths of a smoke cloud. This man is supposed to be Rick's kill but the not-actually-funny thing is, Rick is lost in the dark sky and hazy smoke. He doesn't move. There are stars in night skies, though. Stars that have died, went to hell and back, and still shine bright. They helped guide runaway slaves like I told Carl and even though the shining lights are dead, they still do their job. Every damn night . . .

And maybe because of the fact our hearts are still beating in a world where only death is supposed to exist do I purposely reinjure my hands by pulling the trigger. The body falls, but only after I'm hissing in pain and Oscar is on the ground and Maggie is screaming and another bullet finds its way into Oscar's head because we don't let our own turn.

Only after a good person dies does a bad one fall, too.

* * *

Outside the walls isn't much safer.

Patrols are everywhere, lining the perimeter on top of hunks of steel and buses. They're heavily stocked here – lots of people, lots of military weapons. Rick asks Payton about this and she proceeds to tell him most of it is for show. Military wannabes is what she calls it. I don't know how Payton could possibly know anything about these people, but then I remember I do not know her anymore. Never really did either . . . things are just _different _now. Of course they are, the world ended, but more _different._

My ear still rings but it is bearable. Oscar is dead, Daryl is missing – we can't leave. The problem is, though, is that we spilt blood. And the Governor's men, well, they kidnap people, hurt them, torture them, kill them . . .

But Daryl's tough. He taught me how to survive.

Rick ushers us behind an abandoned car. The vines growing out from the back windshield suggests it has been here a while. We are at the front of Woodbury, where Daryl would meet us . . . if he were here.

I finger the red rag as Rick mutters something about Daryl needing to _c'mon. _

_Good?_

_Good._

Just breathe.

A minute passes. Glenn conceals a cough into the grass, shuffling is heard from the people on patrol. They have spotlights and scan them over the surrounding area – watching, waiting.

Payton shuffles forward, brushing some stray hairs out of her face as she whispers to Rick, "The woman I was with – "

Rustling from the places not even the Governor's men's spotlights can reach make the words die in Payton's throat. A black woman with what looks to be some kind of sword – a katana – strapped to her back crawls out from the underbrush. Blood from a gash on her forehead is running down onto her nose, and I watch as she struggles to get to her feet.

Rick drawls his gun, talks lowly, "Where in the hell were you?"

Wait – we know this woman now?

"Put your hands up."

I see Payton swallow and she's moved a bit closer. The woman looks at her.

Oh.

"Turn around, _turn around."_

Maggie has the gun on the woman, too, and maybe she's confused, but I get it. Payton knows her, talked about her, was _with _her – I get it. The woman puts her arms out, slowly turning around as Maggie and Rick circle her. Rick unsheathes the katana from its holster, carefully and cautiously, and it makes a _ching _noise. He holds the gun up for a few seconds longer and she falls back against a train car among the various objects in this field. The gun goes away.

"Get what you came for?" he asks.

Her gaze lazily slides across us, lingering on Payton for a moment. "Where are the rest of your people?"

Way to pour salt on a fresh wound . . .

"They got Oscar." says Glenn.

Maggie adds, gun still out, "Daryl is missin'."

"Did you see him?" I ask her and she may not know me, but it doesn't matter. _It's Daryl._

The woman shakes her head.

Shit.

Rick gains her attention, "If anythin' happens to him – "

"I brought you here to save them."

"Thanks for the help."

I haven't even seen her until now.

"You'll need help to get them back to the prison . . . or to go back in there for Daryl."

She knows where we live, who we are.

"Either way, _you need me."_


	14. Chapter 13: Fork in the Road

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 13: Fork in the Road

My back misses my bed. It is pressed on the green car now, protesting against the metal that smells of home. Daryl's rag is still in touch, damp from water, and it runs over my hands. Over and over again like a machine it goes; robotically. The blood blends in with the sun-bleached, red material and I don't bother with my face, just my hands. Feel the rag; feel the sting in my wounds as the water trickles down into my palms . . .

It's dawn. The sky is painted many different colors like when bombs were dropped on Atlanta and we were stuck on that highway. So many colors exploded in the sky and people stopped fighting to watch it. Only difference is it was night then and the birds did not chirp as they do now.

We're on a road swallowed up by woods. No walkers for miles. And by _we_ I mean: Glenn, Payton, that woman named Michonne, and I. Rick and Maggie left to go back for Daryl, but that was long ago when it was still dark and the birds were sleeping.

I haven't slept in twenty-four hours.

Maybe blacked out for a few seconds once or twice, but sleeping? No.

Payton is to my right, sitting with me, and she just watches as the rag keeps moving, probably rubbing my skin raw – quiet. Glenn and Michonne are a few feet off. I thought he was going to pass out on the way here.

I don't know what to think, what to say. The oblivion of this situation is making me uncomfortable.

Payton breaks the silence as I continue to rub the rag merely to give my hands something to do, "We looked for you," she says, and I hit the pause button, "your dad and I."

_Dad. _He was dead, attacked by a walker. It grabbed his arm and he screamed and I ran, I just fucking ran. But Payton says he lived, they looked for me – _for me. _But I couldn't stop running.

"I ran." I tell her, voice wobbling a bit and eyes on the trees. "Couldn't stop . . . It's said people run from their fears and I was scared of walkers, so I ran." That is not all of it, though, and I know this well. I ran because I had to be somewhere else. I couldn't watch everything I knew die, couldn't be there for that. _Had to run, had to go . . ._

My legs wouldn't stop.

Not until I fell.

My fingers are shaking; the rag sits still between them. This is a new development. Sometimes, memories can hurt people more than the _now._

Payton continues, "After I lost him, Michonne found me on the outskirts of a Walmart I was dumb enough to try for. I was caught up in this barbed wire fence . . . the thing was wrapped around my ankle pretty good, cuttin' into the skin. My gun had two bullets left. One for the geek grabbing at my boot and the other – " She stops, chuckles to herself. _"That was for me." _I look at her. Payton's head is all the way back on the car, fists pulled into balls. Her black hair slides back from her face like a curtain opening to reveal her lips pulled tight. "I figured I was supposed to die with my parents and I – I guess I did stupid things because of that. And Michonne was the first person that didn't want blood, so I thought," She shrugs. "'_What the hell?'. _And I never pulled that trigger."

The rag is mush in my hands. I switch it between limbs. "Do you ever wish you did?"

"Sometimes, yeah, but I learned how to survive out here. There was another woman with us, too, and we all helped each other. I can throw knives now – _crazy."_

My eyes flick to her belt where about five or six knives dangle. A few have blood on them.

"So how'd you get wrangled up with these people?" she asks and my green eyes travel up to her dirty and scratched face. "What's with you and that guy with the crossbow – uh, Daryl?"

_Daryl. _I squeeze the rag, water sprinkles out onto the pavement. "They're family."

"What – he your long-lost uncle or something?"

"Something . . ."

Payton takes in my words and then we go back to being two battered teenagers just sitting. My ear bled earlier, but it is better now and it clearly picks up on the spring breeze shaking the trees' bones. Birds talk to each other, squirrels I can't shoot scamper about. A walker's silhouette stumbles deep within the underbrush.

"You don't know me," Payton blandly states, moving her arms so they dangle off the knees tucked under her chin, "I get that. Never really knew you either." She pops her chin out to Michonne and Glenn who are in the grassy land beside the asphalt, sitting in the bank. "I know _her_, and you know _him."_

Two different people. Two different groups.

"These days I keep myself going by saying everything happens for a reason, they got to, right? The more things I see, though, the harder it is to believe. Days ago we happened to stumble across a helicopter crash scene. There was this guy, he was part of the military and, um – " Payton stops, closes her eyes. I swallow. She blows choppy air out of her nose as her composure returns. "His upper half was separated from, y'know, _the rest_ . . . I didn't know what to think as this half-walker was reaching out to me with those _eyes_, so I shut it down."

She looks at me, tired brown eyes. "But when I saw you, an actual familiar face in all of this shit – maybe things do happen for a reason."

I respond without quite realizing I do, _"Maybe."_

"We get to start over now."

_Maybe._

_"Glenn!"_

A barely-audible voice barks through the trees. My head turns but Glenn's eyes are already on me.

_"River!"_

Glenn scrambles up before another heartbeat can pass. He starts saying our leader's name over and over, dashing into the woods, stumbling into trees. Michonne slowly climbs out of the bank and follows my friend. Payton is on her feet and she holds out a hand to me. I stare at her skin lined with old wounds and calluses, stare at her eyes that look tired and empty. Taking her offer, she helps me rise as I use both her body and the car for support. My own figure is screaming inside but that is inside where no one can see. I hold the red rag and the two of us go.

In the foliage, I feel safe. The tall trees shade, they protect. There is a line of people approaching the four of us here. Rick is in front, leading as he should. Maggie is next and then – and then _Daryl._

Oh, thank God . . .

And I could almost smile. I could almost say that I am "good" without knowing deep down the word is a lie. I could . . . ha, I could.

If only I didn't have hunter eyes that must see the whole scene.

A fourth figure is sauntering behind Daryl and that's enough to set every breathing person off here.

Rick is prepared for the explosion, however, and he swipes out an arm. He says there is a problem and that goes without saying. Michonne draws her katana; Glenn aims his gun, _"What the hell is he doing here?"_

He doesn't deserve to be called by his name.

Four and four become eight as two silent groups form one shouting mess. Weapons are out and I guess I expected that when his face came into view. Glenn attacks Daryl with words, Rick and Michonne fight without touching each other. I don't move – just watch, hold the rag . . . let it happen, if there's blood, hey, there's blood.

I know deep down where there are still sparks of feeling left that I don't want that, though.

Payton goes to Michonne. Her arm reaches towards the woman but she doesn't touch skin. "C'mon, Michonne – "

"He tried to kill me!" she shrieks, katana at Rick's throat while his gun is at her forehead. Michonne's eyes are wild and big like an animal's. Her arms are extended out, muscles coated with sweat. "And you know it!"

Payton falters. I watch her eyes travel down to her left shoulder as she thinks. And then she moves forward again, "Stop with the bullshit actions." Payton grabs both of Michonne's hands that are wrapped around the katana's handle, and the woman lets her for a second, but then she roughly pushes her back. _"Stop!"_

Maggie has her gun on Michonne and tosses worried looks between Rick, her boyfriend, and I. Michonne is locked onto Rick and Payton and she are now fighting. I don't jump in because it is pointless and I feel stuck in the middle of it, back against the wall. The back and forth arguing triggers memories of Mom and Dad and I want to run, but I can't. Weapons of different kinds threaten lives. My gun stays tucked away in my waistband.

Over at Glenn and Daryl, "Look at what he did! If it wasn't for him Maggie could've – "

Glenn's gun is aimed at the body behind Daryl, but Daryl is in-between, so the bullet looks like it is for him. But that's wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong . . . Daryl's crossbow still sits on his back, and he has no weapons but his arm to block Glenn. "Nah. He helped us get outta there – _drop it – _"

"Yeah, right after he beat the shit outta you!" Rick throws words over his shoulder to Daryl, giving him a look. This makes my eyes fly to Daryl's figure and they search: dirt, sweat, blood on his cheek – dammit, Merle.

"Hey," the person behind Daryl speaks. My attention turns from the conflict he's been causing to him, to Merle. The man behind the madness glides back into a tree. He relaxes against the bark. "We both took our licks, man."

_"Jackass." _spits Daryl.

"Hey, shut up – "

Rick whirls around, _"Enough!" _It falls silent for a second, just a second, and then Michonne pushes forward with her katana, Payton tries to stop her, Rick shoves his gun in their faces, Maggie yells something, and Daryl and Glenn keep acting pissed off. And me? Well, I resort to wrapping the rag around my hand. I don't tie it, no, I wrap and wrap and wrap, tighter and tighter, wishing I had my bow so I could run off and shoot some squirrels.

And finally, the last string is pulled. Daryl whacks Glenn's pistol because he is sick of it being there and I am, too. "Get that thing outta my face!" He sounds real angry and it has been a while since I've heard him like that, but it was a long time coming.

Group members and outsiders realize "decent" people are aiming at each other, then, and weapons fall down. We're not exactly good people, but we are no Woodburians either. We're average, mediocre – I am not sure about Merle, though – and there really aren't that many left. At least in Georgia.

Merle is laughing like this is a comedy, like this is a joke. He's leant up against that tree with that stupid smug look and loose arms, cackling. That doesn't fly here_, mister,_ it won't.

_"No can do . . . mister."_

_"So unwise . . ."_

Get out.

Back to the present: Merle's laughter, the trees, the woods, Georgia – not four walls and a roof, not a gun pressed to my forehead with a finger ready to pull the trigger.

Merle talks in an amusing tone as his laughter dies off, "Man . . . looks like you've gone native, brother."

"No more'n you hangin' out with that psycho back there!"

I killed a man with the own bones found within his body. He was scared and so was I. But when I shot that man down after he killed Oscar and was about to come for Rick, I didn't feel a thing. Maybe I have gone native, too, perhaps we all have.

"Oh, yeah, man, he is a charmer. I gotta tell ya that . . ." Merle's eyes drift over my head to Michonne and Payton who seemed to have calmed down a bit. His mouth is open, tongue out. "Been puttin' the wood to you girlfriend, Andrea, big-time, baby . . ."

I ignore Merle's snarky remarks, his personality, and instead take in that Andrea is alive. She's alive, she is in Woodbury, and she knows Payton and Michonne. Carol said she saw the woman go down, but Carol is gone now and the farm was so, so long ago.

I step forward and kick some dirt and pine needles that decorate the forest floor; the sweet smell of sap fills my nostrils. I know I should just stay out of this like a good kid, but also like a kid I need the confirmation. I need to hear him say it.

"Wait," I say, directing it to Merle. No one speaks and I feel those annoying eyes on me and I don't look at Daryl for a reason. "Andrea's alive?"

"Mm-hmm, right next to the Governor," Merle pulls his mouth tight and then chuckles once more. "Your lip is lookin' better, princess. Same with your hands," My face tightens as I give him a cold stare. His eyes move to the result of getting slammed against a wall, trying to fight back. "Ah, tried to give Martinez trouble, didn't ya? No, no, no . . ."

"You did this?" Daryl asks, turning to Merle. I realize his voice has instantly lowered.

"Jus' taught 'er a little lesson was all. Not much different from when we – "

Daryl's back is to me, so all I can see is the vest and crossbow. But there must be something in his eyes because Merle stops right in his tracks, and I'll never know what the two brothers did. Can't say I really want to, anyways. My past isn't all that great. If someone wants to read my story, they can look at my arms. Too bad I usually cover them with long-sleeved shirts.

Merle is saying, "She was askin' for it."

"Man, she didn't ask for_ nothin'."_

Maybe it is because we let our guard down or maybe Michonne is really bloodthirsty, but she goes towards Merle again, points the katana again.

And Rick stops her,_ again, "I told you to drop that!" _She lowers it. "Do you know Andrea? _Hey. Do you know Andrea?" _Michonne stays quiet and holds a stare with Rick, and it almost seems like Payton is going to say something, but then Merle interrupts:

"Yep, she does. They both do." I wish he'd just shut up. "Her, the kid, and blondie spent all winter cuddlin' in the forest."

Andrea was the other woman she mentioned they were with. Oh.

"Mm-mmm-mmm . . . _yeah. _My Nubian Queen here had two pet walkers. No arms, cut off the jaws, kept 'em in chains."

I turn to Payton but she looks away.

"Kind of ironic now that I think 'bout it – "

"Shut up, bro!" Daryl yells. I don't think that is going to work.

But Merle just grins at him like it doesn't even matter. "Hey, man, we snagged 'em out of the woods, Andrea was close to dyin' . . ."

"Is that why she's with him?" asks Maggie.

"Yeah," replies Merle. "Snug as two little bugs. So whatcha gonna do now, Sheriff, huh? Surrounded by a buncha liars, thugs, 'n cowards – "

"Shut up!" Rick has about had it, I can tell. His patience can only last so long.

Once again, Merle chuckles and grins like all of this is one, big, fat joke. "Whoa, oh, man, look at this. _Pathetic!_ All these guns 'n no bullets in me – "

_"Merle, shut up!" _Daryl again.

_"Shut up yourself!" _Merle shoots off the tree, actually standing straight and tall. "Buncha pussies you run with – "

His words die off, though, because Rick hits him in the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. Merle goes down, giving my head relief and ears peace and quiet.

_"Asshole." _our leader comments.

And that, was _asking for it._

* * *

There are two other vehicles on this leaf-littered Georgia road, a dark minivan and black-and-white car. They're both unusable, got no supplies, and they wouldn't benefit us – dead weight. The way I see it, Merle is dead weight as he lies unconscious on the forest floor. Payton and Michonne are standing beside our green car, talking in hushed voices. Rick, Glenn, Maggie, Daryl – my people – and I stand on the road in a gathering of sorts, a group discussion. There is plenty to talk about.

"It won't work." Rick tells Daryl, hand on hip.

Daryl grips the crossbow strap, "It's gotta."

At the end of this little road there is a yellow sign with a black cross on it. A ways down from that, sits a clearing with another road. It's an intersection, a crossroad.

"It'll stir things up."

Right now, ideas are clashing, colliding like two roads at an intersection.

"Look," Daryl shifts weight, hesitant to say these words, "The Governor is probably on the way to the prison right now." His words are unsettling, but the calm tone helps put my mind at ease and my heart at a steadier pace. "Merle knows how he thinks, and we could use the muscle."

That's true but the glass in my palms, the gun to my head, the knife in my lip – _Glenn's face_, swollen and bloody and black and blue and purple . . .

Glenn and Maggie both talk at the same time, and that just hurts my head. But then Glenn talks individually and it is better, "Do you really want him sleeping in the same cell block as River? Carol? Beth?"

Carol's alive. That is one of the first things I was informed of as we set foot on the pavement. Daryl found her deep down in the tombs, barricaded in a room. She's okay and that's good, I'm happy for that.

"He ain't a rapist,"

"Well, his buddy is."

I picture a crying Maggie getting thrust into Glenn's arms as she tries to cover herself up. She said nothing happened but words are only good for so much.

"They ain't buddies no more." Daryl points out. "Not after last night."

"Maybe – " I start, staring down at my untied boots. "Maybe we could put 'im somewhere else . . . D Block or something."

Because we let Axel out and Oscar is dead.

_Stop._

"River," Glenn's soft voice forces my head up. I don't like the eyes he's giving me. "Merle put a gun to your head. The Governor pulled the trigger while he watched."

This awakens Daryl. _"What?"_

"He pulled it twice – "

"It doesn't matter." I interrupt, looking around. "Not anymore – it can't."

But Glenn is persistent, "The only reason you're still breathing was because he was low on ammo."

Daryl and I lock gaze. I see that pity I hate so much, so my head goes back down, shaking, "No . . ."

"There's no way Merle's gonna live there." Rick decides. "At least without puttin' everyone at each other's throats,"

"So you're gonna cut Merle loose," observes Daryl, "and bring 'The Last Samurai' home with us?"

All attention turns to the pair at the car. They're not talking anymore, no, but rather leaning on the vehicle. Michonne is on the side mirror, Payton sits on the hood, legs swinging. I don't think they can hear us.

"She's not comin' back."

Maggie says that she's in no state to be on her own. Glenn adds that she led them to us, but then Rick reminds him she ditched us. Maggie asks for Hershel to stich the woman up. Rick is iffy on the matter, claims her to be "too unpredictable". Ain't that the whole world, though?

I know Payton won't leave Michonne like that, though, not after all these months. But she's also a familiar face I don't know if I can lose.

I step in, "But Payton,"

And with those two words, Rick understands. We make quick eye contact, he bobs his head slowly. _We'll talk later._

Daryl's eyes remain on Michonne. "We don't know who she is." Then they flick to us. "But Merle, Merle's blood."

"No, Merle is _your_ blood." corrects Glenn and he can't be more right. _"My _blood, _my _family, is standing right here. And waiting for us back at the prison."

"And you're part of that family." Rick informs Daryl, strong-toned. Daryl stays quiet, doesn't even blink. "But he's not. _He's not . . ."_

Merle has woken up. I hear him groan as he stumbles to his feet, bracing himself on a tree. The man rubs his head.

Daryl talks, "Man, y'all don't know . . ."

And what don't we know exactly? Daryl's words leave more to be desired, but he stopped there and somehow, I get it. Rick has moved over to the side some and it isn't even a circle anymore. It's Rick, Glenn, Maggie, and I vs. Daryl. No, no I don't like that . . .

It's quiet for a long while – still. Feels like a calm car ride, bird chirps replacing the soft hum of the engine.

Until it isn't.

_"Fine. We'll fend for ourselves."_

_The brakes are slammed on._ My head snaps up. And I guess I did not notice how bad it was hurt because it screams now. _"What?"_

Glenn tells Daryl that that wasn't what he meant and of course it wasn't. _That_ is stupid, _that_ is ridiculous.

"No him, no me."

Daryl can't leave. He's what I know, he's part of a home, he's family. He can't leave because then we won't be good and we got to be, _got to be . . ._

"Daryl, you don't have to do that." says Maggie.

He looks away. "It was always Merle and I before this."

But the world isn't how it was before. Daryl may come to realize he doesn't recognize Merle anymore.

"Don't . . ." Maggie trails off in this sad, broken tone.

There is talk of leaving and Carol. What are we supposed to tell her? _She'll understand. _No, she won't. I don't, I don't, I don't –

"Say goodbye to your pop for me," Daryl tells Maggie. And then he's moving, walking away – no, he can't go away. I follow him, muttering his name. Rick does, too, and we're running – _the car speeds up._

Rick is speaking lowly to Daryl when I reach them, "There's gotta be another way."

"Don't ask me to leave 'im, I already did that once."

We're at our car, not the one inside my head, and the three of us briskly walk past Payton and Michonne. Yanking on the handle, Daryl opens the trunk. Rick is talking about what we exactly started last night. My head is pounding.

"No him, no me. That's all I can say."

He starts rifling through the trunk, hands me my bow, my quiver. I don't know how they got there and I also know my hands missed them, but the items just dangle from my fingertips.

Everything is happening fast and helplessness is taking over. "Take care of yourself. Little Asskicker, Carl – " Daryl shoulders his pack. "That's one tough kid."

I haven't seen Carl in a while. Days, it seems.

But it's not.

Daryl looks to me, jerks his head towards the woods where Merle is waiting. "C'mon."

_And just like that, the brake pedal is hit again. This time the car swerves to miss a deer_

C'mon? What? He expects me to leave? With him? With Merle? _Throw everything away, put it away. Forget._

_But Carl_ . . .

He notices my stalling. His eyes pan up. "She can come."

_Payton. _I look back, she's watching. Maggie and Glenn are up here now, too, everyone is watching.

I stay silent. My green eyes slowly flow downwards.

"Alright . . ."

Daryl goes to move, but I stop him, "No – "

He turns and the mask of hardness that was once covering his face drops. "What?"

It hurts but things aren't good. "I can't . . . _I can't."_

I can't. I can't just run off in some woods and leave a home and family behind. I can't be alone in what is supposed to be a group of friends. Not again, not again.

I can't.

And neither can Daryl.

So Daryl comes back. He comes back and the mask goes up and he puts a hand on the same shoulder that Dale touched before, before –

"You really are a good kid."

Daryl tightly squeezes the shoulder, backs up, gives one last look, and then strolls off into his brother's awaiting arms.

_The car can't seem to regain control after swerving and the vehicle flips, rolls until it is nothing but a crumpled mess._

"Daryl!" Rick shouts, but he's already too far gone.

There was a reason Daryl didn't ask if I was good. He already knew the answer.

People crowd around the crash scene because they're human after all. I, however, do not need to see the wreckage.

Because I am a part of it.


	15. Chapter 14: Anesthesia

**Man, I am getting horrible at updating.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 14: Anesthesia

The difference between alone and lonely is often confused. Alone is a physical state of being while lonely is an emotion. Five other people who have not fallen into insanity from a bite wound sit in this car with me. The engine softly hums and green on more green zooms by through the glass of the windows. Most of Georgia is trees, big, tall trees that are proud of themselves. And as the days wear on, more and more sprout up naturally because it is not like anything has disrupted them from construction in the past year.

Dad was a construction worker. He had a hard hat, that neon vest – his truck, Old Blue, would often sit in the small, deformed driveway covered in dust and little paint chips. A branch or two would occasionally stick out the bed of it. It smelled like dirt and sweat and leather and smoke – all of that stuff you shouldn't really breathe in – but, God, I loved that truck. And now there it sits in the outskirts of Atlanta, in a heap of trampled tents, scattered supplies, blood, bodies, and bullets. Unless someone stumbled across it, unless they were smart enough to hotwire the vehicle that had seen better years. I secretly wish no one even looked twice at Old Blue.

But if they took what was registered under Dad's name, cars only last so long.

And then it sits in some other crime scene of another horror story.

_I should stop now._

Or should I? Because there is a reason my past is playing through my head like a slideshow I guess is still mine.

Dad killed those trees.

He hurt the environment and its inhabitants. Mom was hurt with words, I was hurt with actions, and he was hurt with bottles.

Good for you, you son of a bitch. The environment wins now. I win. I'm still alive. You're dead.

Ha.

_Stop._

I listen now. Back to present.

Rick is driving, gripping the steering wheel tight. He guides the car down the middle of the road because lanes do not matter anymore, and there is this weird rumbling sound whenever the tires connect with the middle yellow lines dividing the road. His foot presses further down on the gas petal and the car accelerates. We're going fast, but I think he's just angry, or distraught. Nonetheless, I gotta trust Rick; his eyes never leave the road, if he's paying any attention to it at all. It's easy to get caught up in the world.

Maggie sits in the passenger seat. Her right leg is propped up on the inside frame of the door. An elbow lies on that leg's knee; the nail of her index finger is between her teeth. She doesn't chew like I would. The woman's gaze is out the windshield, staring at the same scenery Rick is – the same damn shrubs and trees that cover the majority of this state.

Next, is Glenn from his place behind Rick. He looks pissed off or tired of it all – _I think the word for it is irritable._ Then again, it is hard to read him with his face all swollen up like that.

Then again, I could have kept my guard up and seen Merle coming. _Then again._

What a powerful thing blame is. It defines, destroys, controls, and consumes us.

There's always got to be blame, it lurks in the shadows, stalking its next victim to attack and ultimately kill.

Michonne is positioned on the opposite side. Her head rests against the window, dreadlocks hanging down to shield her torn-up face. Before we loaded the weapons up, before car doors slammed, before we sped off, before a heavy silence rolled over us, after Daryl – _Rick sternly snapped at Michonne. _He informed her that Hershel will patch the katana wielding woman up, and then, well, she is _gone. _His voice was strong and authoritative, he meant business. But I know Payton won't have it, and she cannot leave for reasons I don't have words for yet. _Words. _I need to get them. I need to get words for Rick. For Michonne. For Payton. _For me._

Right now I just got nothing to say.

Speaking of Payton, in the middle seat is where she is. She's not doing anything really. Her finger twirls a loose string on the bottom of her black, short-sleeved shirt, but that's about it. At least she can wear short-sleeves and not think. I still have problems; my shirt is long-sleeved.

And me? I find myself in the trunk amongst the crates of different kinds and various weapons. This vehicle is held up higher so the trunk is open, I can see the others and they can see me. Going in, it was obvious that there were not enough seats so I just jumped into the trunk, wordless, so none had to even be thrown around. It's tight back here. My knees are pulled up and I can just about feel every bump, something is jabbing me in the ass but I can't move to reach it. Despite all of the negatives, though, my weapon – my bow – is here – here in my arms, touching my sensitive hands. My finger plucks the string, other hand moves across the wooden structure. The second part, the quiver, is slung across my back like it ought to be, arrows and all. I didn't have time to count but by the looks of it, I lost a few. Can only ask for so much, I suppose . . .

The rag is back to being wrapped like a safety blanket around my right hand. My shoulder still tingles. _He _put the bow and quiver back here. For me. I don't know how that works, but they're not lost anymore. _He _did this.

My legs are starting to cramp and I try to stretch them out, but I can't. A wave of helplessness passes and I internally scream.

There wouldn't be enough room back here for two more anyways . . .

Maybe this is a sign –

_No._

_"You really are a good kid."_

_Stop!_

A flash of Dale's stomach shoots through my brain, another of a knife driving over and over and over into a walker's skull.

_My fault, my fault, my fault – guilty. The blood was on my hands._

_"This ain't your fault, kid."_

Oh yeah?

_"Sorry, brother."_

Dammit, Daryl, why'd you have to –

A curse. The vehicle screeches to a halt.

I raise my head to discover yet another car accident. There's a tree branch, a dead body lies face up in the grass, soaked in blood. And then sits the vehicle, it's a truck, really, but not Old Blue for this truck is red, and has a crane in the bed, labeling it as a tow truck. The red, tow truck is parked diagonally behind the branch, blocking our path. A darker red is splashed across the front bumper and I know what that is. An overturned cart with a hitch is to the left of the scene and its load of boxes and bins are spilled out into the terrain that is not asphalt, keeping the body company amongst the blades of grass.

Sighing, Rick thumps the steering wheel. He puts the parking brake on, switches some gears around. But before his fingers find the door handle, Rick's eyes flick up to the rearview mirror. This mute motion lassos the attention of my own being and I take a glance, a "gander" as my books would say. But it is not Rick looking at my form hunched over in the back that makes me pull away. It is not that ridiculous pity and empathy crawling up my spine.

It's my reflection, in the mirror, staring right back at me.

There's a stranger beneath my face.

And I don't want to get to know them.

So Leader Rick gets out and Maggie follows with a huff and even Glenn stops being pissed off at the world long enough to join the other two at the truck. Three spots are now vacant and getting cold, but Payton and Michonne have not moved. I am not alone. _But lonely?_

I don't know what I'm feeling.

It is a mixture of emotion.

I pull the jabbing object out from under me, a box of ammunition, and my head rolls back to bump the glass of the window. I blow out a long exhale, mainly to keep a grip on that remaining bit of composure left within. The breath staggers, wobbles, and then dies off – becomes nothing.

What the hell am I doing?

Payton uses the same mirror Rick did to get a look at whatever I am. Michonne does not move a muscle.

An all too familiar snarl collides with the surrounding air. What I find when my eyes lift is that the tow truck's driver door has been popped open. Maggie and Rick are both at the front of the vehicle and they draw their guns as I watch Glenn yank out a biter, the source of the snarl. He throws the infected shell to the ground and the snarls quickly turn into gurgles as Glenn begins stomping down in a frenzy. From here, the walker is absent from my view, blocked by the fallen tree branch, but I know Glenn is doing a number on it. Over and over and over again. His teeth are clenched and he lets out strangled cries that never produce tears.

Desperation, anger, fear, sadness – that is the product of the combination. I've been there. It is what happened in that field between the knife, that bony, shirtless geek, and me. By the time I was done with the monster, there was nothing left.

A crunch. A crack.

He's done.

Glenn stumbles away, heaving. The other two round the car with barely a peek at the fallen. Michonne's head is tilted away from the outside but still on the window. All three of us have tuned in.

And it unravels like a movie scene.

This is something they'd make a movie out of, right?

"You didn't kill _him,_" Glenn says, and it's got a bitterness edge to it, a _how could you?_ vibe. _Him _is Merle, but do we really need to say his name? Yes, because that's the only reason he scampered off into the woods with fucking _Daryl _breathing. It's harder to kill someone you know the name of.

Rick eyes Glenn but not in the mean way. It's the _oh, I see why you're mad _way. "That's not why we went back – "

"No, that's right. You went back for Daryl . . . and now he's _gone again _and the _Governor _is _still alive."_

"Daryl was the priority."

Yeah, but where is he now? He's gone, that's what – just like Glenn said. _Daryl is gone. And he's never coming back, never, ever, ever . . ._

I should have left, too. I should have disappeared off in the woods just like I've always wanted to.

Funny how needs outweigh those wants.

There is heated talk about conditions. Glenn should have been there, he claims. But he was in no condition because of what Mer – Because of what _somebody did. _But Maggie was? His girlfriend was?

Yes, Glenn, she kind of was.

Shouting from Glenn hurts my head as he lets it out, leaning in closer to Rick, _"Do you know what he did to her?"_

_"Leave it alone!" _screams back Maggie.

_"Do you know?"_

Actually, I do know, I know enough. When Maggie was pushed into our room she was scared and trembling and crying. Her shirt was gone and she said they didn't do _anything, _but how are we to know? _You forget what people do_, those were her words. And those people may have not laid a finger on her, but they tried.

They painted the picture.

They dug their own graves.

Glenn turns to the trees where a walker or two waltzes about. We don't have enough cares to pay them mind. He comes back when he is cooled and his voice is much lower, "After all that effort, all the risks we took, Daryl just takes off with Merle?"

It's like nothing even matters anymore. You can't just build something and not finish, you can't just_ leave._

But he did . . . _he did._

For bad blood.

Rick replies, hand resting on his hip, "Well, he had his reasons."

Glenn scoffs. _"Yeah. _You keep telling yourself that, Rick." He swings his good arm out towards the car. "I'm sure that little girl in there would love to hear it."

I bite down on the inside of my mouth. I don't want to hear anything, I don't want to say anything, I just – I want to go home. God, I sound like a five-year-old . . .

Glenn continues, "Doesn't change the fact that we're up to our necks in shit!"

"You want me to turn the car around? Beg 'im to come back? Throw down a 'welcome mat' for _Merle?" _Each question is more jabbing than the rest and Rick takes steps closer to Glenn as the words pour out of his mouth. He bares his teeth, all mean and nasty like, probably gets spit on Glenn's face, _"This is the hand we've been dealt!"_

Well, I'm sick of these shitty cards we continue to pull and unfair deals. I'm sick of this hell and I am tired, tired of all of _this!_

I need to run but there's nowhere left to go. Need to sleep but we're not home yet.

Maggie says something about how we should get going and talk later, bracing herself on the hatch.

"No," begins Glenn, "you do all the talking you want. _I'm done."_

My head falls against the window as I go back into position. I can feel that stinging sensation burning me; for I am losing a battle I never actually had a chance of winning. The tears are flowing out in a steady stream, but I wipe them away before they can really get anywhere.

Yeah, Glenn.

I'm done, too.

* * *

All of the aches and pains return for the remainder of miles we travel. Supply bins and weapons stab my skin with every slight jerk of the steering wheel. The constant back and forth swaying of our vehicle resorts to the pressure on my skull increasing; I want to throw up. I stomp down on that feeling, however – all feeling besides the overwhelming physical pain – like when Glenn caved that walker's head in with the sole of his boot.

I know we're getting close when the forest thickens and more hitchhiking undead cross our path. Martinez said the location of the prison was nestled in some bad part of Georgia. What'd he call it again? My brain tries to reach for the memory with outstretched arms, but it misses a few times. Red is the only part of the equation I can recall on, but staring down at the rag wrapped like a vice around one of the two limbs caked with dried blood helps. Somehow, it does. _Red zone._

And maybe they won't come because of that. Then again, if we're not afraid of living amongst monsters than they have no reason to be. Either way, action is going to be taken because we are bloodthirsty animals, all of us. _Barbaric._

Think we'd be trying to hold on to the ones that remain. Build up a civilization and all that; make a comeback – human evolution.

But if we turn this final corner and rumble down to the end of the gravel to find our home destroyed, decaying in consuming flames, then I guess it won't matter because then we'll feel revengeful. Not everyone sees the bigger picture; and now that the government fell we can do whatever the hell we please, go ahead and act in manners we only dreamed of before.

The prison is fine. Actually, it looks better than ever blanketed in blue from the sky. Two people stand in the rectangle surrounded by chain-link, and a jumpy exhale leaves me. _Carl. Carol. _They were waiting for us. The both of them immediately perk up when they spot us and run to the gates, each person taking one. Rick glides our car past the biter's clawing at the fence, through the first gate, and right into the rectangle. Carol, who is very much alive, pulls the gate now behind us back into place, locking it.

Putting the vehicle in park, Rick turns to Maggie in the passenger seat, "Drive 'em up, I'll meet you there."

"'Kay."

And so Rick leaves and makes a beeline for Carl, who is positioned further ahead. He swoops his son up with a smile. Maggie climbs over the center console to reach the empty seat and Carol's form appears from Glenn's window, rifle peeking out from behind her shoulder blade. I know who the woman is looking for, but she won't find it here. I pull the bow in closer, a gift from _him; _the best one I have ever gotten.

Giving it some gas, Maggie takes lead in our journey – we trudge on. The other three get smaller and smaller until they're little ants. Tires hit a slab of concrete and out file Hershel, Beth, and Axel from cell block C. Our car is still, we are still – three seconds. I count because it eases the pressing discomfort. Three seconds and then we stop being paralyzed, move. _One, two, three. _Maggie, Glenn, Michonne, Payton – they all get out, car doors echoing closed behind them. And me? Well, I climb over all the crap in the back, bones creaking and muscles protesting. The trunk hatch lifts and in sheds some light. Maggie's sad face connects with my form before I slide out, gripping the bow tight.

Glenn storms into the cell block without a word, brushing roughly past the ones who emerged from it. Michonne follows and Payton goes right along with her after I barely give her a nod. The trunk and big, red cell block door close at the same time. It creates this loud clang-thud noise and I flinch.

But my pain has little time to inflict damage because a figure of recognition is jogging into the courtyard. This person is for me and letting go of my protection – the bow – I collapse into him as he engulfs me.

_Carl._

No more strangers, no more ghosts. I'm home now. This – this is _home._

_Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl, Carl_ . . .

We both let out a strangled cry lodged in the back of our throats and the tension, the pressure – it breaks through. _Relax. _That is the key to hunting, survival.

I couldn't go with Daryl because a snake had wrapped its way around my weary body. The creature was tight like a vice and restricted all movement and thoughts of possibly leaving what I had.

I'm better now. Less . . . suffocated.

Carl replaced the snake, but his grip is not half as tight.

Pulling away, I wipe away any sign of breakage. I get a good look at the boy and he gets a good look at me. When you don't see someone for a while and then your eyes finally lay on them, it's like the first time all over again. You have to remember: a Sheriff hat that is missing its star, shaggy brown hair, his dad's eyes, the gun with a baseball bat silencer, and that ridiculous paw-printed shirt he likes so much.

Carl and I nod, once, twice, three times – keep going until my head reminds me it was slammed against a wall yesterday evening.

I just – I just can't _believe it._

Can't believe how much I actually _missed Carl Grimes._

* * *

Four strangers sat in the kitchen when I entered the cell block, but I paid them little mind. There was a woman and three men; one appeared to be a few years older than me – a kid. They didn't look threatening or animalistic, and they were not from the Governor's pack. So I walked past, quick throw of a look over one shoulder, and kept on going. Rick'll deal with them.

I led Payton to my cell and ignored Daryl's perch and unloaded my stuff from my body and collapsed on the bed, and then Hershel came in. Payton took a seat in the dusty chair backed into the corner, which is where she still sits now, one leg propped on her knee and hand close to her mouth as she just _watches. _Watches Hershel work, watches all of my injuries get discovered, watches how I don't say a word, not even one. The silence is killing me but I crave it.

Hershel attempts to make side conversation. He tells me that the baby has a name, Judith, and Carl gave her the title. My third grade teacher had the same first name. On the first day of school she informed the class of it because she didn't want any boundaries, didn't like the formality of Mrs. Mueller and the way it rolled off her tongue. It was her first year teaching and she was just married roughly a month ago, so I guess it was a lot to take in. Most of us still called her Mrs. Mueller, though, because that was the right thing to do, and back then we were all about being good. There was this one kid in the class, however, who always called her Judith, no matter what. She had the biggest smile saved for him. I can't recall the boy's name, but he had blue eyes and his mom was always on time to pick him up after school. Mine was usually a few minutes late.

I also learn that my hands should heal up nicely as they lay motionless in my lap, both wrapped in fresh, white bandages, and that no bones are broken. Courtesy of Merle, I guess. I do not respond to any of Hershel's babbles and the man fails over and over again. I wonder if Payton is counting his losses.

A bright ball shines into my eyes from Hershel's mini flashlight. I try to focus on it but much like the memory I struggled to grasp earlier, my eyes have trouble locking onto the light. But when they finally do, the baby wails, and they retreat as a stabbing pain shoots through my skull. I hiss.

Hershel's concerned face flashes across my vision and I go back into my shell.

"Hey, doc," a blurb of Payton's voice breaks through the baby's cries and it sounds distant, but she's right _here. _"does that thing ever shut up?"

There's background noise, a bunch of fuzzy movements. Then – nothing.

I'm back in the world of living and the baby is not squealing anymore.

The light is gone. "You have a mild concussion." Hershel announces.

"I hit a wall." I say to my feet. It doesn't go under a _win, _though, because the words fall into the category of being _there _and _existing,_ instead of delivering straight to the listener.

"I'll see to Carl waking you throughout the night, just in case."

There's a possibility of being consumed by a coma, but sometimes I want to go to sleep and never wake up. I don't understand how I am to fall asleep, anyhow; too many demons linger.

But Hershel is the man with all the answers and he presents me with a pill bottle. "This should help with the pain."

He stands, readies the crutches, but before the thought of him leaving can reach my damaged head, he pauses, "You sure there's nothing else you need?"

My eyes are on the wall. A tiny blood stain paints its own picture of death.

The old vet sighs, "Alright . . ."

And then he goes, the clanking noise of his crutches assuring his dismissal.

_Silence._

_Painful thoughts._

_"You're a good kid."_

_"You really are a good kid."_

_No._

_"I killed him."_

_"I know."_

_Look at all of that blood._

The silence expires, "You look like hell . . . you should take the pills."

I release the bottle while still locked onto the wall and it rolls across the mattress, pills knocking into one another. "You first."

_Why? _Because Payton was stabbed in the shoulder. Not in Woodbury, but in the woods, with Michonne – about twenty minutes before they found us being nabbed by Merle. That's how the group let them in. Michonne had the formula, Payton, my bow. They fled Woodbury because they saw it for what it was while Andrea couldn't, and they were attacked because of it. And who was the culprit? Merle, of course. He shoved his blade into my friend from another life's flesh while Michonne received a bullet to her leg. All of this was learned from those small talks I zoned out from time to time. Everyone has a story, no one gets to end up in the same place they started – _we all change._

She doesn't move, "Do you want to tal – "

_"No." _I shoot in quickly. "Need to forget."

"Okay."

More quiet and finally, _finally, _I let the wall go. "Why'd he look for me?" No names but she knows who I am talking about. My own bad blood, my own _Merle._

And she looks at me like it is the most obvious answer, but what does she know? "You were his _daughter, _River."

_Daughter._ Haven't heard that word apply to me in ages.

_"He loved you."_

I could just laugh because now _that _is a funny joke.

"He looked for you until he couldn't anymore, and I just trailed behind like one of those _things_, y'know?" Payton bites down on the inside of her mouth, remembers, "We were off Interstate 85, following these tracks we found from actual people. And then what always happens, happened. There was this herd and after _he – _I ran, too; like you did at camp."

It hits me then just how close they were and that the same herd which took Sophia also took my father.

Payton ran.

I ran.

Aren't we all just running? From walkers, from people, from demons, from our past, from ourselves?

We are beings that run until we can no longer take one more step.

Until the things we are running from catch up and swallow us whole.

* * *

Payton takes the pills and ends up thrown out across the top bunk, snoring away. Hershel says that both Michonne and Payton must've not slept in days. It's not quite dark yet so I drift through the prison like a lost soul. I should swallow down the painkillers but I do not want to go to sleep, not just yet.

Scaling the steps, I find Carol holding a fussing – what's its name again? – Judith, yeah, _Judith. Mrs. Mueller's name._ The woman slightly rocks and bounces the baby, hushing it. My eyes take note that Daryl's things have been swiped clean from the perch and looking at Carol's face, she wears a tight-lipped smile as she gazes down at Judith. The baby must remind her of Sophia. I know I do. Sometimes when I catch Carol staring, that same smile which is present now is there then.

"Sophia used to wake the neighbors," she says down to the baby, her voice is in a gloomy tone with a strong edge to it. "Three AM - like clockwork."

I guess I have some words for Carol. She fought like hell to stay afloat and I'll give her that, "I used to be an early riser, too. My mom told me that I didn't cry very much, it worried her at first." Stepping closer, I get a good look at Judith. She's a bit bigger, if that is possible, and dressed in a little pink onesie. I poke one of her two rosy, chubby cheeks with a bandaged hand and she goofily grins, gurgles. I don't have much experience with babies but this yanks out a tiny smile buried deep, no matter how hard I try and fight it off.

Carol looks to me and her softly-painted green eyes are sad again. She shifts the baby, "Ed stayed at a friend's most nights till she calmed down."

I blink at her, noticing the internal conflict beyond the hollow face. "Daryl said you'd understand." I tell her in attempts to change the subject to something that didn't leave visible scars out of hate. "I mean, I guess I am trying to understand, too, but I don't know what I'm feelin'." I cross my arms, getting an eyeful of the empty perch as my back hits the railing. "I wanted to fold up and stop."

"You can't."

"I know." I let out a _pshh _noise, eye Carol through the remains of daylight streaming in. "That would be too easy, right? It's just stupid how we let people get in our heads . . ."

This seems like a casual conversation with Carol because she gets it, we've both been there. Demons haunt her and me for the same reasons.

"Men like Merle make you feel like you deserve the abuse." Judith has quieted down quite a bit and she is no longer squirming in Carol's arms. I watch as the woman lowers the infant into a box with blankets cushioning the bottom._ "Lil' Asskicker" _is scribbled across the side in marker and it hurts less to get a peek instead of a long stare.

Brushing her hands on her pants, Carol continues, "And I'm hardly the woman I was a year ago, but if Ed walked through that door right now – " Her eyes flick to the barred passageway that is sealed tight because we have visitors, " – breathing, and asked me to go with him, I'd like to think I'd tell him to go to hell."

I push away from the metal biting into my back and drop my arms. My head bobs, confident – _certain._ "You would. And I would like to think I'd do the same if my dad came here." Both of us know that these two figures are wasted away, rotting somewhere, but it provides us a new level of self-worth, nonetheless. If it were someone else besides her and I, either one of us would brush it off like it is not worth a damn penny. But that's not the case. There is Carol and there is me. Damaged people can't fool other damaged people. "I'm also kind of pissed at Daryl. Do you understand like he said you would?"

Carol's look softens as her thoughts transition from Ed to Daryl. "Daryl has his code. This world needs men like that."

He does.

_I'm glad you're still here, Carol._

* * *

**Perhaps, that was worth the wait, I blame school completely. I haven't written Carol all that much, even though she is my favorite character to date, so my writing may be a bit rusty there.**

**The next chapter should be out sooner because this whole "updating-once-a-month" thing I got going on is killing me.**

**~ Rainy**


	16. Chapter 15: Little Talks

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs its rightful owner.***

* * *

_"You're gone, gone, gone away,_

_I watched you disappear._

_All that's left is the ghost of you."_

_~ Of Monsters and Men: Little Talks_

* * *

Chapter 15: Little Talks

_Hands._ Strong, calloused hands snag my body like a trap on a passing deer. They drag me through the rough terrain, rocks and sticks prodding at my skin. I get roughly pinned down in a harsh, sticky substance after movement stills; it smells metallic, burns almost. A second's thought allows the realization that this is blood to dawn on me.

But it is not just any blood from a wounded being.

It's my _own._

_And I am drowning in it._

The pressing hands become too real to bear so like a bolt of lightning, I jolt up, pushing away any touch in my wake. A silhouetted figure scampers back and this whole encounter becomes electrifying, magnetic. My head bangs on the bars supporting the top bunk, but to no avail, does not disturb the resting person from above. I can't seem to register why someone – who now cowers in the back corner – would be in here. Here has _nothing._

I begin touching my own skin in search of blood, my legs planted on the hard floor as I continue to sit on my own bunk. Carl comes out of the shadows and all my skin is is a bit sweaty from anxiety. That was a nightmare. A bloody nightmare. I then remember concussions and comas and as Carl ventures forward, slowly-gaited, so I can see his face, my bandaged hands fold in my lap. It appears that I am praying. To who? I do not know.

Sighing, I rub my face once more. It's the second time he's awoken me tonight, because that is his job; _I should have known . . ._

"I'm still here." a shaky confirmation from me to him with a tint of _joking._

But Carl's face is hollow and serious. His stance is also rigid and I guess none of this is a joke, to him, at least.

"You were talking in your sleep," he says simply; _worriedly. _His brows furrow as he tries to understand, grasp the concept, "Who's – ?"

Too bad I am one step ahead of him because I interrupt; stealing words I don't want to hear from his tongue, "Doesn't matter. They're dead, anyways."

Standing, I use the bunk for balance because it still hurts to complete simple tasks. I begin taking steps forward, glance at Payton's sleeping form – she's snoring slightly.

Carl asks as a stream of moonlight touches my face from the open door, "Then what does?"

_What matters? _This stops me in my tracks. Payton kicks her bedpost. Mutters, _"Screw you." _in her sleepy haze. I contemplate.

"I don't know."

I abandon the room without even bothering to grab my bow or any weapon for that matter. He follows.

"Where are you going?"

Good question. Last time he woke me up, we just sat – talked. Apparently, Rick kicked out that other group, who were in here, had some kind of mental breakdown in the midst of it, too. I didn't hear any of that chaos, though, because I was already out of it from those pills. They're great except for the fact that they make you have vivid dreams. _Except._

"I need some fresh air," I reply, skirting past empty cells and a lonely perch. Halfway down the stairs, I pause, "Guess I also need to walk . . . _alone."_

"At least let me take you out there; I have the key."

So I agree without words – _screw 'em_ – and Carl takes the lead through this grey prison with splashes of darkness because like he said, he has the keys after all. Once we've walked through the cell block, we stop at the door, our silhouettes casting on a wall beyond. I recall how this room was occupied by strangers hours earlier; four in total. They seemed decent and were begging at our doorstep for what I can only assume was a chance. We were like them once, at the CDC. Jenner – he granted us our chance, opened those doors and set us free into a brutal world we weren't quite accustomed to yet. But my group? But Rick? He kicked whoever those people were out. _No chance. Poof. Gone._

I wonder if Jenner is looking down at us in the same respect he once had or in scorn; if there even is a Heaven. Mom is probably one of those pity angels, cringing at my actions and the reality that I am not like her, both in life and death. I never wanted to be –

_We don't think about Anna anymore, River. Remember? Or him . . . or anyone else that isn't here._

That's the rule I established while on the road. And it worked for a good while . . . until I had to have human interaction with outsiders, they brought it all back.

I still heard their voices in Woodbury, though; haunting me – echoing as I gazed up at the swaying light.

_They don't matter._

Yep. Keep telling yourself that –

The surrounding area is fairly quiet, so the action of the boy's keys knocking into one another in search for the correct one is actually harshly loud. With creaks and moans, the barred door opens and with one last squeal, the red door behind that slides back as well. I almost half expect a head to peek out from one of the cells or the baby to stir, but none of that happens in cell block C. It's not that my cares lay in the zone of not wanting to be seen, because they do not, I just would not mind someone to ask what we're doing; receive some attention.

Unlike the stuffy confines of the prison, outside the air is loose and fresh. It feels like an average spring night; crickets chirping, full, bright moon, moaning bodies stumbling through the tall grass, and a hugging warmth within the air. My long sleeves prevent me from experiencing the true stripped-back atmosphere, but that is okay. This is better than breaking out in cold sweats, enclosed by metal bars. Not good. But better.

An aching sensation within my bones, something I felt earlier, decides to sprout up, then. I power through until I reach the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by frayed basketball hoops and rusted bleachers. Carl approaches my stopped figure. He keeps distance between us, though. My back is to him, and I am positive that my shadow is downcasting upon his face – his face that isn't covered in scratches and bruises from the same person that stole Daryl. His eyes haven't seen what I have; hands haven't been splotched in blood from killing.

It is just not the same.

And as I told Payton, I don't want to talk about, I just want to forget; need to, anyways. That can be a hard thing to do, though, when reminders are on your body and you're forced to look at them every damn day.

He doesn't know that, though.

I can run.

"Who's on watch?" I ask, using the bits of moonlight to search for the watchtower.

And Carl answers my getaway question, even though his tone suggested he'd rather not, "Glenn is."

_"Perfect."_

My feet itch to walk but Carl steps closer, reeling me in, "Wait, River."

But he got what he wanted, walked out here with me so I wouldn't get killed or whatever. Glenn is here now.

"In Woodbury . . . did – did _something_ _happen?"_

Something: as in bad. Worse than the givens – losing Daryl and Oscar . . .

_"Third time's a charm, eh?"_

Wordlessly, I stare down at the pavement like it can save me. My chest heaves, shaking a bit. _Unbalanced._

Carl's hand finds its way around my bicep and I tighten up. His face comes into my vision line and notice his eyes are glassy, reflecting off of the moon. "You've been quiet." his tone is as serious as it was after he woke me up, like he wishes to know what goes on in that head of mine . . . or pull out some type of feeling stored away. "Before you came back, Carol and I were talking about what used to be – how it is now. She told me that she misses the noise sometimes, and I guess I do, too." He squeezes, gently, "It's okay to talk."

I can't. I'll break.

So instead of saying what I should and what he wants to hear, I recollect and make a sad, tired statement:

"I played the game of life . . . and I lost. That's what happened."

Shaking him off, I slip away into the night, into the darkness. A voice in my head is informing me that I should sit down with him and have a little talk – _feel Goddammit. _

_I'm sorry, Carl._

_I'm so, so sorry._

That's all I am.

* * *

I whistle up to Glenn when I am certain of being in hearing distance. The tune is three notes, our group's chime. We used it often before the prison. Clearing out houses, distracting the undead – whatever convenience it needed to serve that day. And then one day, a good day, we talked to the birds with it. No creatures of the forest replied, but the cluster of us smiled, chuckled a little.

So the day was good.

Glenn's flashlight shines down on me. I squint in the midst of the bright orb and he whistles back. I throw open the door positioned on level ground without regard to my bandages and I really should take it easy on them, but that thought fails to cross my mind until I've trekked up the staircase and through the next door Glenn holds open for me. The weighted metal falls closed in a tired thud. Glenn doesn't move and I swivel around from the trees, face him. Shadows cover half of his body. I remember the last time I was up in one of these things, when we cleared out this place. Carol was over in that corner – the one painted in light from the moon – and _he –_ well, he stood in the opposite; it is blanketed in dark now . . .

_Dark. Gone. Unknown._

"Can't sleep?" Glenn asks.

"No," I shift. "You?"

He shakes his head.

Turning, I go to the railing surrounding the perimeter of this raised platform. My arms dangle off the edge as I lean on the cheap metal, I exhale.

And Glenn joins me once he retrieves his rifle from one of the four corners. His chin rests on the butt of it now and a gentle, spring breeze slides over our bodies. I look at one of the walkers ambling about. It is alone. They usually travel in small packs or herds, like animals. _Like us. _But this one is truly just _one_, a lone wolf. _Like Daryl._

_"Let me ask you something, River,"_

Shoot.

_"Have you ever wondered if those things are the cage holding back what that person once was? Is?"_

I don't think I want to know.

Once again, Glenn is the one to let noise be heard, "How's your hands?"

My hands. He was looking at them, thinking about the crippled limbs. Maybe he thought I was, too; wasn't, though. They're curled in at the joints and the bandages are itchy, but there is not a forcing pressure holding them down on a chair anymore. Or glass lodged into the folds of skin, or a man grinning and chuckling at these stupid games.

But my hands only pail into comparison to my arms . . .

"I've had worse." I shrug.

They didn't heal all the way through like I thought they would, standing in the bathroom of that intoxicating house, holding my arm as fresh blood oozed out. Shouted words still ringed in my ears, the stinging in my skin from the beer bottle could still be felt. And he was quiet, probably passed out from his temper tantrum.

Oh, how I was wrong . . . Oh, how times have changed, you dead son of a bitch.

"I'm sorry." his tone is sincere, inviting, and a look of disbelief washes over his face. "Can't believe he just walked away like that – "

Glenn thinks I am upset because of _him _and he is partially right, but, "It's not all about . . ._ Daryl. _That was kind of the icing on the cake, actually." I raise my head from where it dipped down close to the watchtower. My mouth moves before any words, but then they come, "I . . . don't know how to think about it; I can't talk about it either because they weren't there and I – I want to forget."

My forearm is still braced on the railing and Glenn puts his hand there. The action is much like Carl's when the boy wanted a reaction, wanted me to feel. This time, though, I do not pull away or run off into the darkness because I am feeling it now; Glenn can feel it, too.

"Earlier when I said I was done talking," he says without removing his hand, and our eyes are locked. "_I lied." _His eyes get heavy. "I should have done something, I know, I should . . . But I stood there while the Governor had that gun to your head and I sat still when Merle hurt you, like a coward. But you – "Glenn drops his head, squeezing my arm. _"You screamed and – and you fought back."_

I try to reassure him because I never thought about what Glenn did or did not do, and his voice is so gravely low with guilt spilling out of the seams, "You fought, too."

"That was different; all I could think about was how much I wanted_ them_ dead, every single Woodbury person that stepped into that room – " He cuts off, turns his head without raising it. "You fought for us." A smile plays at his lips and I can feel my face relaxing more. But then all of that goes away when a new, emotional wave crashes over Glenn; and I see the exact moment it chooses to. "But I didn't, though, I fought for _me_. Maggie – she – she protected you. She gave away the prison. It wasn't her job; she wasn't supposed to do that." Glenn shoots up and his hand falls away, leaving my arm to begin instantly turning cold. _"That was on me! I failed just like I did with my own family! Couldn't protect them – "_

It's my turn to put a tentative hand on his arm because that's what we're doing here, taking turns feeling. "Glenn – "

At least we're taking turns.

"River, you're – you're like my sister . . ."

_"Glenn."_

All I can say is _Glenn, _all I can feel is _sorry._

_"You're family, too."_

And then that is when the dam breaks and water gushes out.

Because I am so utterly caught up in broken feelings, no matter how many times I say I cannot feel a thing.

* * *

**I haven't done many character studies on Glenn before, but it felt right.**

**Yep.**

**~ Rainy**


	17. Chapter 16: Defining Selfishness

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 16: Defining Selfishness

I think it's human nature to be selfish.

You got something good and you want to hang onto it, I get that. We all want the good. Nobody wants the bad . . . but the bad; it still comes, same as the consequences to the blood on your hands. No matter how high you hold the trophy, or tell yourself over and over that it was a threatening enemy, what happened . . . _happened._

The past cannot be changed. Not sure about the future but it seems better to work with.

Rick can't let it go, though. Last night he cracked in a heat of a moment I'll only know stories of, but I heard his screams during what I thought were more nightmares. Today he is lost, _again;_ back at running and chasing his own tail.

Might as well bite his own neck, too, because he is going to end up dead.

Living in the now feels like fighting a losing battle. Authority and order has left and we're back at square one, the beginning. My two feet lie planted on the concrete floor – I'm breathing and all because that's what these people want. Glenn is kneeled down on the floor with Carl and they are scratching out the layout of the prison – which we aren't very certain of ourselves – with a piece of white chalk I've never seen before. Squares mark rooms and the presentation loops back around to square one. Maybe we're not that different from Rick . . . at least we have a sense of direction, though.

Carl tells Glenn that he found the group of survivors we kicked out fighting off some walkers within the tombs. Their removal did not feel like slamming into a tree and rolling around on the pavement. It just – _stung . . ._ a prick from a needle can explain it. The known,_ us,_ refer to the unknown as _Tyreese's Group, _and deep down I know these were people with names and stories like us, but any of the four could be Tyreese. It's so much easier to pull the trigger when you do not know a thing about the person on the other side. But like names, faces imprint into our heads and mock us until we want to rip our skulls open.

Point being, there is no way out of this mess. You just learn to steer around the horror and keep the car moving forward. Have to.

Aggravation eats up Glenn as he tries to comprehend why walkers were in that section of the prison, because we cleared it. He asks Carl if the boy is sure. He is. I taught him some ins and outs of navigating, so he should know. _He should. _And he does. _Good._

Sighing, Glenn accesses the situation placed in front of us; like a card game, waiting for his next move, "Means there's another breach," he says, defeated, while a hand goes down to steady his crotched position. Glenn then rubs his face with the other hand, mirroring Rick almost – he thinks, _"Okay . . . _The whole front of the prison is unsecure."

My shoulders sink and I resist the urge to bite down on my already-banged-up lip as the limbs holding me up skid out more, pushing my back further against the wall. We're exposed all over again, stripped back and helpless. This place is now fair game such as the farm and the quarry and all those times we searched for a purpose in the midst of trees. Rick, who I handed my well-being away to, said this place was safe. Its fences, its seclusion, its dull yet imitating structure – has a hole. A bullet hole in its pretty, little skull. I almost desire to be one with this lifeless wall, but I state my claim for the sake of being able to breathe, for now,

"If that other group came in here, what would stop the _Governor?" _I spit the last word out because it leaves a bad aftertaste.

"Why're we even so sure he's gonna attack?" Beth asks from the corner. I know why. Because I saw him, because bad people don't feel like I'm trying to, because the other side will retaliate, _always . . . _You also gotta worry, gotta think. "Maybe you scared him off." No. Rick said it, told – told _Daryl _it before he left. We started something two nights ago, we did. Finishing would be ending or _scaring them_ _off_. And that is not what went down. What went down can and will not go untouched. Not until the last bullet is spent and blood stains some surface.

And then Michonne, who I almost forgot was here because she is invisible more often than not, states coolly, "He had fish tanks full of heads. Walkers and humans – trophies," The newly founded information pulls me up short and I can faintly feel my face contorting into a strange frown. That is a whole other level of insanity. Not Rick screaming at walls or running from ghosts in his mind. The Governor is proud of his trophies, _he likes it. _And that's the scary thing.

_"He's coming."_

"We should hit him now." I go back to Glenn. His eyes have brightened since I left. An idea.

"What – ?" breathes Beth in her softened voice.

Suddenly, Glenn is talking fast. I would call it an exciting tone but this is a different kind of that. We're taking about execution. "He won't be expecting it. We'll sneak back in and put a bullet in his head."

Carol says we're not assassins and we're not, but the idea, it is not half bad.

Glenn stands. Ignoring any question, he strides up to Michonne and Payton; eyes on Michonne, though. "You know where his apartment is. You and I could end this tonight." Realization strikes and he tells Payton, "You could, too, if you wanted. You know the layout."

I am unsure if it is an agreement or acknowledgement, but Payton responds, nonetheless, with: "Yeah . . ."

Michonne, however, sighs and takes some time to think. She eventually nods after Glenn offers to do the killing himself, and he responds with "okay". I don't think that word is good for explaining this situation.

"He didn't know you were coming last time," Hershel's steady tone fills my ears, much louder and bolder than the meek noises before. He "stands" – if you can even label it that since he'll never feel the sensation of unsupported upright again – on the other side of the scribbled chalk; a dividing line. "and look what happened." Hershel begins to list things off like a grocery list, not lingering on the bad items for too long: "You were almost killed, Daryl was captured, and you, River, and Maggie were almost executed." _Almost. _It is thrown into the mix twice. And suddenly my gaze is shifting to Glenn's black eye and busted lip, which I didn't give a time of day until now, and Daryl's final words of "farewell" push onwards in my head and I'm remembering the goodbye note on the hanging tree that night we were looking for a dead girl and then I'm on the floor again feeling scared, blinded by a sack, hearing Merle – being forced to accept death. And I drown in the blood on my hands because I live on . . .

I guess throughout the process of taking in _what happened_ I had this horrified, lost-in-thought look upon my face because Carl is staring now. Payton is a bit, too; more under the radar, though. He worries . . . it's – justified, I presume. _Her_ – I don't know about her. I'm still trying to figure her out, think she's doing the same to me. Some shells are harder to crack than others.

Glenn has since moved and he is much closer to Hershel now. The shadows are looming over his hunched back as Hershel's silhouette is purely seen in the light, and tides are turning. I realize Carl and me are both on the sidelines, directly in the middle of the space left between the two. Stuck in the middle, we're always stuck in the tired, old middle.

"Rick would never allow this," Hershel is saying and I know this because we don't really get a say with Rick. He was a cop . . . he knows the enemy, their moves – can read the signals pretty well.

But he's not here, _again._

"You really think he's in any position to make that choice?" questions Glenn in a dark tone.

"Think this through clearly . . . T-dog lost his life here – "

_"Go, kid, go! Get out of here!"_

" – Lori, too – "

_I picture Lori beaming at us as she holds the gate open, rubbing her belly. Haven't seen her look that happy in months . . ._

" – the men that were here – "

_Sometimes, I can still feel the warmth of Oscar's hand when he pulled my battered body up on that bus; the burning sensation that followed after when I avenged him –_

"It isn't worth any more killing. What are we waiting for? If he's really on his way, we should be out of here by now."

Try telling that to selfishness, Hershel, try telling it to pride. And if we were to leave, where would we possibly go that could provide another chance? I don't think I have another eight months in me, not like before. Hershel is right yet wrong.

The question of where to go gets thrown about in reality, like where it was in my head, and Glenn informs Hershel that did run, "Back when you had two legs and we didn't have a baby crying for walkers every four hours." We were more united then, more in sync. This "house" is divided now.

"We can't stay here."

_"We. Can't. Run."_

Maggie decides she's had enough then because she zaps out of the room like a bolt of lightning during a heat storm, ones Georgia sees many of amongst the sticky, summer months. Cause and effect and realization of ones actions leave Glenn backing off and his voice returns to its usual pitch, "Alright. We'll stay put." The darkness has since passed, still lurks in the corner, though. Glenn points to the ground. "We're gonna defend this place. We're making a stand."

I like the thought of fight over flee, but there is an inner fear within. _Daryl isn't here_, that's what the voices say. _Piss off, _is how I reply.

Glenn returns to the floor and drawing. "Carl, you and I will go down into the tombs. We need to figure out where the breach is."

"You got it."

I want to cut in and find out if I'm going, too because Carl is _my _partner, but Michonne beats me to the chase, "You'll need some help – "

_"No." _Glenn shakes his head. "In case anything happens, I need you out here, Payton, too." He takes a breath for more words but they end up dying on his tongue. Looking around, he does a head count, and then asks a burning question,

"Who's on watch?"

* * *

_No one. _The answer is that no one is on watch. So it doesn't take much for me to pluck a handgun – since my other one was stolen – off the table with an attempting-to-heal hand, and shoulder my bow, the words, "I'll go." leaving my mouth before I can even think of forming them.

And I find myself once again outside. Outside where it's quiet and warm and I can think. Oh, how I am an outsider . . .

Rick comes across my path easily, oblivious and unsteady. I stand at the fence surrounding blacktop and look at him through the chain-link. I try to come up with an explanation of what shifted to cause this destruction, but it's just the world being, well, _the world. _Don't think there are words for that.

"Have you ever been on watch before?"

A skeptical question causes me to jump in my own skin. It occurs to me that I tuned the world out for a minute or so there. Allowing the culprit in some, I turn to see her black, curly and heavy hair pooling down over her shoulders. Her t-shirt is loose on her bones and her arms lay against her side in a laid-back stance I've come to know well after all these years. Payton's brown eyes are dull yet distinct and I answer her not because I should, but because of that element – her eyes,

"Yeah. Why?"

She shrugs, very carefree, very nonchalant. "Well, usually you look in more directions than just one." I look down, raising my eyebrows briefly, and she surveys the area. "Looks good . . . Used to go on watch all the time, me and Michonne would sit back-to-back under a canopy of trees – just sittin', _waitin'_. Got pretty good at it for a while there, could tell the difference between geeks and people by sound."

Funny how she doesn't mention Andrea . . .

"Presume things are different here, though," Payton goes on with her words I don't respond to. Guess she notices Rick 'cause she then states, "Your man Rick there is slipping through the cracks."

My face crinkles and head bobs back up. Through the branches of the trees I can barely make out Rick's faded shirt. He moves out view and I skim over the rest of the underbrush, because Payton told me to – won't admit that, though.

_"Before,_ he said he wanted you and Michonne gone." I say, catching her eye. "We were supposed to talk . . . doubt it'll happen now, though."

"I figured."

"What?"

"I figured he would throw us back out on our asses after all was said and done, could see it in 'im. It was more of an orderly deal, anyways; _'you tell us where our friends are and we'll keep you from bleeding out'." _I eye her from under my long strands of brunette hair. And it is as if she can sense that her words leave more to be desired because before I can provide Payton with that _look_ of confusion, she hurriedly connects the dots, "I can read people exceptionally well. Knew the Governor was really a madman by his eyes, knew the town was all for show, putting on a play as you will. Knew your people were good, knew it was you leaning on that red Chevy during that run because who really still chews on their fingers these days?"

It hits me then that Payton was there. When we got ambushed – she was watching nearby. And I'm angry for a second, I swear, I am, but then realization kicks in and facts start pouring in. Merle was chasing them, they were injured, what could she have possibly done? So I live with it, and I stay quiet; just like I always do.

"You're keeping a lot locked up." she informs me. I stiffen; grab my bow like it's a security blanket.

_"And you're not?" _the words roll off my tongue in a flaming growl. Because I call bullshit if she is going to sit here and tell me her hands are clean. She always played in the dirt when we had the time to actually be who we are. Back before shit hit the fan.

But Payton, well, she is still lighthearted and comical, "Well, yeah, but I'm just better at it than you." She didn't take the words as I did, given, she is just as mature, and maybe that fact alone can serve as the blistering truth that _I don't know_ her.

My body sinks, tension vanishing. "Guess I'm losing my charm, then, huh?"

"Guess so."

Maybe I should try to get to know her. No one else, right?

So I ask, "Would you leave if Rick said to?"

She frowns. Her whole demeanor changes. Payton starts shuffling, kicking at loose gravel. "Y'know, that's what I've been tryin' to figure out." We make brief eye contact. "Out there, it's simple: stay together just for the sake of _being. _But here, behind these fences – got kind of a voice."

"So you don't know?" Another question. Questions is how you learn.

She pauses. "Did you? With_ Daryl_ . . . was – was there some kind of plan?"

I try to shield myself from the hurt and not seemed bothered. "No."

Payton nods, sucking on her bottom lip, thinking, "There ya go."

Checking the area again, I go back to speaking, "I don't know – maybe you wanted to sneak out like you did back home."

"Okay, that was like once."

"Twice." I correct, a ghost of a smile smearing over my lips. "My window that Isaac threw a rock at says otherwise."

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to come. Asher was a spontaneous thrill-seeker and you know it."

Finally, I just let it unfold the way it should and softly chuckle. Can't remember the last time I even had the urge to. "What did he drag us out into the woods again for? Bigfoot?"

Payton is smiling, too. "You know, I think you're right. Bigfoot tracks or somethin'."

We share a laugh. I breathe, "Yeah, of course, the tracks . . ."

The atmosphere returns to the same depressing mood it always manages to carry.

"It's good what you got here." says Payton, "Better than out there."

She goes on, "The people – they're good, too; said it like it was right away."

I think I see movement and I squint to better my vision, heart rate picking up.

But it's just Rick. Just Rick falling in and out of sanity.

And then Payton finishes, muttering, "It took Michonne a month to speak a full-out sentence to me."

* * *

With time, the sun dips down lower to the soil. Payton trickles downward towards the field with its long grasses after nothing is left to talk about. Conversations between us are rough, even if she withdrew a smile from me. She is right, though; we're keeping information on the down-low.

Given, some warmth soothes my healing frame, but my mind decides to ignore the weather entirely. I pace the fences holding the courtyard captive. My gun is since tucked away because Michonne came out to watch – another reason Payton had a right to leave me – and my bow hangs in-between my fingers in a loose grip, bumping the side of my leg every now and again. I do not pay attention to the walkers that have been unusually scarce today, or Rick, or the possibility of the Governor banging at our door, or merely any aspect which could throw me off.

Cell block C's door eventually wails open and out pours Glenn and a wobbling Hershel. Carl follows and I quit the ignorance act. My ears discover tense conversation between the two new arrivals in the same moment as I meet Carl at the gate. Glenn's at the silver pickup. Carl greets me, his town lighter than last night . . . _grateful,_

"Hey."

I let out air I guess I was holding. "Hi."

"You doing okay?" he asks, peering up from under the brim of his hat.

I nod, tight-lipped. "Gettin' there."

_"Good." _And it is as if he understands the power behind that single word because he takes it back immediately, "No, I – I'm . . . _glad."_

He always notices.

"The tombs are filled up again," Carl speaks another time.

I frown. "We just cleared them."

"Yeah, _I know_ – " He huffs.

"Were you in there?"

"With Glenn,"

"I should have gone, too."

He shakes his head, an 'I'm-not-mad' look crossing his face. "You don't gotta do everything."

"What are you provin'?"

I turn my head to the sound of that question leaving Hershel's mouth as Glenn walks away, climbing into the vehicle sitting before him. Carl and I move out of the way as he drives through the gate Carl holds open, because he insists I let my hands rest, and while I'm staring at the tail end of the pickup, watching dust and gravel get disturbed in its wake, I think of what I am actually proving here.

I said what I did because it's _Carl – _point-blank. Where he goes, I go, too; _or did. _But it's okay for it to be like that, I do not always go to be there, in the moment. It's okay to listen to the stories sometimes. _It is._

So what am I proving?

Nothing. Things are different now . . . just have to adjust.

"Hey," Carl retains my attention the same way he first grabbed it at the start of this talk. "I really am glad you're okay." _Sincere. True. Happy._

I answer with, "Me too."

Taking his shoulder, he nudges my arm. I'm ready for it, however, and win against the fight to flinch or pull away.

I provide him with the faintest grin in return.

* * *

Carl makes it known that I don't have to tell him about before. Things are back to "whatever happened, happened" philosophy and I guess that's why I let him in on a tad bit of information when he helps me to take the bow off my shoulder because my fingers are restricted by cloth. I say it was glass and it may heal all the way through, may not. He says he hopes it does and I think I catch his eyes lingering on my covered forearms for a second too long; might just be seeing things, though . . .

Payton and Michonne keep lingering in the field, holding gates open and keeping an eye on Hershel as he goes down to converse with an distraught leader. Carol and Axel stride up. I hear _"Rick" _from their hushed whispers. Beth approaches Carl and me, making sure to smile specifically at me, and they begin talking about something Judith did earlier. _Something._

And with the warm air and the semi-togetherness of us all, this – the now, the living part – it, well, seems kind of . . . _bearable. _Even with the pile of our loses standing taller than the fences.

I go to silently pan around another time to fully accept head-on pending bearableness, but before my head can reach its first stop, a bee flies right past my ear in a harsh _whizz. _I glance back out of curiosity to attempt to catch a glimpse of the insect, but the glance transforms into a stare when the bee collides with Axel's forehead. The man falls to the ground – which is an awfully odd reaction to a sting – hand I begin wondering if he's allergic, I should have asked.

But I don't have to.

Because it wasn't a bee.

It was a bullet.

A bullet calling my name, saved especially for me as I squint through the prison's structure to spot the Governor aiming us down through his scope.

Oh.

Red stains asphalt again; must be its favorite color by now.

We lost another so I guess this means the pile has now cleared the fence, slowly crawling to us until we find out who death claims next.

* * *

Everything fades into inanimate objects. Mobility is lost. Carol is on the red ground with Axel, but not even she makes a noise; probably too shell-shocked. My green eyes stare into the remaining, green eye of the greedy monster. He destroys – rips apart one life after another because he _wants _to, none of these are _needs._

_Selfish, foolish, child._

Those words are directed to not what _is_ now but what once _was_ – the Governor wants to take us out even when he has a town, and selfishness turns into stupidity, which then becomes childish. Children are simple-minded. I can't be. And with those words and thoughts and time, thinking in general results in distractions, for an outburst of bullets are ricocheted across what holds the title: _home._

We all fall. I scream Payton's name on the way down for security sake, even though she already senses it, can feel it. But she's lowered in the weeds, and whether she is alive or dead, I doubt her ears are listening for the sound of my voice. I dive behind the bleachers with Beth and Carl and my shoulder smacks into a bar as I attempt to squeeze as close to the object as possible, using it as a shield. Shell cases thump to the ground while others embed themselves into metal around me.

The war rages on like a storm and it rains bullets. My palms don't have enough grip to handle a gun and I can feel the sweat building up inside under the bandages. The sensation is uncomfortable and so is my hunched positioned, but if I move a centimeter of an inch, I will die. That I know well. Archery skills are useless up to this point – not like I can reach the bow, anyways. I have the gun, though, and Carl is looking at me with these wild eyes.

He switches the safety off of his own gun. _"Go."_

"What?" And then I fold up further into myself when more bullets rain down. My body trembles.

"I'll cover you," he says, "_Go. Now."_

I do what is asked because Carl is determined. He's determined, he's trying, and I guess I'll spend my breath trying, too.

So I go. Scrambling on all fours all the while the gunfire never stops. I roll behind a solid wall to avoid getting pelted and the blacktop seems to connect in all the wrong places, roughly smacking into bumps in bruises. I am left hissing through clenched teeth, body slumped and whining, but safe. _Alive. Safe. _Those are factors that count.

And then it gets quiet, real quiet – the wrong type of quiet. We could pretend things are normal, but the danger is knocking at our front door. Carl and Beth take the time to spring up and run to me. I'm ready to squeeze my eyes shut if a single shot sounds, because I know the meaning. It never comes, however, and they are at me, sided up against the wall. Carol remains on the ground, protected by Axel's dead body. Her head lifts slightly. _She's alive._

The door flies open and for once it doesn't protest on its hinges. It is almost as if it was ready for it, knows its job now. Maggie bounds down the stairs. She calls out her sister's name and then sprints to us. The woman has guns, lots of big and powerful guns I've only seen but not touched, and she shoves two and into Beth and I's arms. I don't even get the chance to tell her I don't know how to use this thing because the shootout continues, and she covers Carol as the other woman joins Beth, Carl, and I. Maggie ducks behind some filing cabinets that take quite the beating from bullets.

I look down at the weapon in my hands. It's an assault rifle. Carol acquires her own rifle and I talk to her through the blasts, try to explain,

"I – I don't know how to use this."

She picks up the handgun I once had, tells me it doesn't have enough ammo to last, and then proceeds to explain the quickest way she can on how to use this . . . _thing._

I'm still not fully understanding and I guess I am nervous and scared – _I guess._

"Just shoot!" she yells.

I do.

There's a guy standing on the platform of one of the watchtowers, our watchtower, and I go for him. Unfortunately, my aim is bad, this gun is strong, and my bullets just shatter the window behind his head as he squats down behind the railing. I curse, feeling my shoulder throbbing and bandages coming undone. Raw skin is rubbing, but I still line up for the Governor because he is shooting at my people and I'm just overall pissed off.

He moves his head aside to evade my shots.

Dammit.

It stills again. My palms drip.

I hear a rumbling. Like an engine rumbling.

My immediate thought is Glenn and I stiffen around the end of the gun, but instead of a silver truck to glide around the corner, a pink-and-white van with a blue strip tears up our "driveway", plowing through our "front door" like it is nothing. All I can do is watch, mouth ajar, as it keeps going; and Michonne spins out of its path.

The vehicle stops in the middle of the tall grasses of our field. It idles to allow the dust to clear. I listen to the sound of the other's breathing to keep me in a right state of mind while I clutch the heavy rifle to my chest with bloody fingers. My head falls upon the top and I shut my eyes to take a moment – waiting, breathing . . .

This is the eye of the storm.

Abruptly, a banging sound presents itself. I flinch, snap my eyes open. What cannot be seen is the driver because a piece of our gate is blanketed over the windshield, but what can be seen, and I guess this is the more terrifying part, is that the back ramp has descended and fallen to _our soil. _And walkers are tripping over one another, driven by hunger, into _our territory _where _our _people are hidden among _our _tall grasses.

Given, I know that nature is just _itself;_ but when you're staring into the eyes of your enemy – in this case, _eye_ – the instinct to protect overpowers.

A dozen or so biters fill the yard and I try to look for Payton, but a new distraction halts my search; the distraction being a person dressed in black armor jumping out of a sliding door provided by the van and running at is, pistol in hand, shooting. My body contracts again to hide from bullets and everything lurches full speed ahead. More glass breaks and I turn to watch the man in the watchtower slump to the hard floor, Maggie still lined up with him as her finger rests on the trigger.

That person with riot gear jogs all the way out to the nemesis' vehicles, rolling into the back of one, and the Governor, that one-eyed freak, well, he props his gun up on his hip as he hangs out the car door. He pulls the trigger like it doesn't matter – killing, doesn't. There is no aim or accuracy, merely for show or attention or boldness. Guess he wants them to be signs that "we're pieces of shit".

But if we are, why does he want what we have?

_"What are you provin'?"_

_Selfishness. Defining selfishness._

And so they drive off in their scream-ish caravan and Glenn pulls up, and the field sparks into even chaos than it already was. Payton is up, Michonne, too, and even Hershel is attempting to wobble to safety. The pickup is making a beeline for Hershel at the same time Michonne is, slicing biters up as she goes. Payton throws knives at some walkers head's. She hits most of her targets and it is like my bow and me; like we're old friends and have been doing it our whole lives because this is what we know and how it is now. Just is.

Payton switches over to her gun and that's when a geek grabs her arm, in the midst of her changing.

But I am ready.

And the thing is dead before its teeth can even get near her skin.

My arm is numb from the shot and I haven't hit anything, until right then and there, but that was because I didn't think about it. Don't think I can repeat it, though. Glenn picks up those in the field and throwing the gate open; we allow them to drive in after Maggie shoots down some nearby walkers. Bittersweet reunions take place as we gaze upon the wreckage. Axel's lifeless shell, remembering the purity of the field – and going past the border line, I spot Rick, sweaty and frazzled.

Only he is not alone.

My finger curl around the chain-link and blood from my since reopened wounds oozes out from the torn bandages and onto the metal. I can smell it, taste it in my mouth again – like before.

Before – I don't have to talk about it, Carl says.

Before – Merle was laughing in my face while I wanted to die.

Before – I bled even more.

Before – Daryl left like everyone eventually does when they tire of me.

I thought before was over. I put Daryl's rag in a box under my bed and washed off all of the blood.

But here stands before . . . mashed between the now and this mess of a world.

Daryl and Merle came back.

* * *

**As if it was not already readily apparent, I am unable to go back to my old schedule of updating (every weekend). My new game plan is to update monthly, for this will accommodate me much better personally.**

**June seems to be looking promising in terms of reverting back to old ways, but until then, I'll catch you all later in April.**

**Thanks for continuing to stick with me through this journey.**

**~ Rainy**


	18. Chapter 17: Petrichor

**Yes. I know I said April . . .**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 17: Petrichor

I shove my eyes away after all the sights are taken in. When he comes in, I don't look at him; or talk. What's there to talk about when we're all just stories? Some have easier words and fewer pages, but _still. Still. _The limbs dangling on either side of my hipbone burn; I embrace the heat. After all, that's the proper thing to do, right? To cut your losses and _move _because if you don't – my eyes catch a lock of blonde bleached with red from what was Axel, still is if you're one of those what's-it-called . . . _Optimist? –_ you die.

I think the whole concept of optimism has something to do with glasses, and drinking. But I hate alcohol and school; only both are missed sometimes when I get that feeling that my brain is an empty canvas, like right now, and because I can't think of a word – or rolling around that empty bottle I always kept under my bed in an old shoebox. I never replaced it when I tossed it down on my mattress just-so that it cracked. The zig-zag flaw gave the inanimate object life and resembled the person I would think about while handling it. Why they brought him such joy, what went through his mind while absorbed in them, and sometimes even if he had enough money for the next case because the bright orange sign on the door did not say "welcome".

Sauntering into the cell block, I wait for Payton's chest to move and for Carl's shoulder to tap mine before I can accept the change of scenery. Merle gets locked behind where we keep all of our "strangers" and he's like a tiger at the zoo, pressing up against the bars as he yells about equality and his rights.

_Just . . . shut up._

That is what I want to say but here I think before talking, so instead the words sink back into my brain and I stomp up the steps and into a cell, or my cell, or Payton and I's cell – whatever. I cannot be sure if I want to label it because then it becomes _yours;_ but it is, oh, it is . . . The now tainted field and courtyard is what threw me off there.

I grab the extra bandages on the sink, dig out _his_ rag while tossing some other items around, and then appear back into the world while sliding to the wall, letting bars dig into my shoulder blades. The brewing storm begins.

Talk based on whether we should stay or go forms, and I quickly learn to tune out the noise until it becomes mumbles. I have always ran instead of standing my ground to fight. Running, disappearing in the woods – postpones the inevitable. Everyone else would follow so it transformed into a strategy of survival. But now, I don't think my body can last another round of playing cat-and-mouse within thick foliage. It's time to be cats now. And it may be hard to convince your heart to agree but once it does, specks of uneasiness coming with it, the instinct we were programmed with ignites. I saw it. Saw it with Glenn in that room.

I dismiss those thoughts and pay mind to what matters. As of now my palms continue to drip red and they send a jolt of stinging pain up my arm, because I am trying to do that whole feeling thing. Making an effort to keep order of the mess, I clean the wounds with spit and_ the rag_; all the while pretending the owner of the object is not up here, to my left. The scratches look better than they were, less infected, less deep. But they still need protection to heal; we still need a roof over our heads.

And it's Glenn's words that are pausing my outstretched arm from connecting with the roll of white bandages sitting a few feet away:

"If Rick says we're not running, we're not running." he says.

Earlier, he was calling the shots, poorly. Glenn wanted to hit them while they were down, but now, he goes right along with Rick's judgment. It's strange how power works. Now that my mind is on the subject I start playing around with the topic because when my brain wraps around something it will not let go, at least until I physically shake my head_ no._ I vaguely feel the fabric of the bandages brushing my flesh. My mind is still elsewhere; not worrying about getting blood on what would ultimately be the carpet in the hallway of a nice, tall house. Where my daily thoughts are located is with what makes power, well, _power. _Do we look to someone out of trust? Respect? Fear?

I think it is kind of a combination of those entire possibilities thrown into one for Rick. Rick isn't the type of guy here to walk into the cellblock and for us all to cower back. You know when he loves you. He can only stop conversations because we want to know what he has to say, I respect him –respected him since that first day when he did not even need to make a decision to believe I was worth saving. It already was there. However, when he doesn't love you is what scares me because I would not want to be on other side of his gun when he has that _look _deep in his eyes. Sometimes I would pity the fools that crossed him out on the Georgia roads. They never walked away . . . and Rick made sure of that.

Bandages in my grasp, blood not quite able to stretch to the floor – Merle's voice catches me with my first wrap of tattered cloth around my worst hand, _"No," _he starts, his hand through one of the gaps in the bars like he's trying to claw in, "better to live like rats." Sarcasm drips from him. Hell, it's practically his middle name.

"You got a better idea?" asks Rick, a little pointy, a little burning.

I busy myself by continuing to wrap through that one second pause of Merle thinking of something to say. It feels as if the bandages are suffocating the limb, flattening it out. The pain still feels better than nothing at all.

_"Yeah._ We shoulda slid outta here last night and lived to fight another day." Last night? Last night he wasn't even _here _and he stole someone else in the process. Last night Glenn and I were crying because we're tired of fighting off demons that only exist in our heads. Last night the field was _ours. _Last night – "But we lost that window, didn't we?"

The window never opened.

Merle keeps going, his words dragging on, "I'm sure he's got scouts on every road outta this place by now."

The figure I've been trying to ignore strolls nearer in a floating daze without me taking much notice. But I can feel him there, of course I can. I consider biting down on the bandage to rip it from its captive, but he's close, and that would draw unwanted attention. So instead I opt for a less mobile solution, unsheathing the single knife from my boot because it yearns for attention.

"We ain't scared of that prick," he grumbles, the one whose silhouette is almost covering my form in the safety blanket it is supposed to be. _The Governor, he means._ With a quick tug, a section of the wraps are free. I secure the tail end closed with a squeeze, remember the pain.

_The Governor. _Am I afraid of him? No. Not his appearance. But what I can't see, what's going on inside? Yes. That part leaves a falling sensation in my stomach. He is a man that rules out of fear. But what happens when you prove you're not scared? Maybe that's the key –

"Y'all should be." _Dammit, Merle. _I snatch the wad of bandages once more to start on the other hand, half resisting the urge to hurl it at those petty, little bars he hides behind. "That truck through the fence thing, that's just him ringin' the doorbell. We might have some thick walls to hide behind, but he's got the guns and the numbers. And if he takes the high ground around this place _– shoot. _He could just starve us out if he wanted to." His voice gets low for the last sentence, the last blow, and I let him finish without thinking too much.

Through the railing, I can make out Maggie roughly twisting her bracelet – on edge. Her action kicks me into gear on shielding the final hand and I go back to swirling donut holes around a busted limb. She faces Rick, who stands sideways to the door – close enough to hear Merle out but still enough room to turn away, "Let's put 'im in the other cell block," Maggie asks yet says at the same time.

"No. He's got a point." counteracts the shadow to my left.

_A point. _Maybe. Maybe for once there was reason to Merle running his mouth. Maybe . . .

Merle smirks. "Always do, don't I?"

The pull from the strained muscles in my hands tell me otherwise and I open my mouth like I am not supposed to, told myself I wouldn't. Ha, _told._

"Hey, you started this!" I yell across the playing field of this game of war. My voice sounds bigger and stronger than I remembered. "Okay? And you don't get to act like that anymore just because – " The words die on my lips and it is not a pretty death either. They die because the ghost, the shadow, has its hand on that _damn shoulder. _I am frozen.

He leans down and finishes the wrapping on my hand, all the while keeping pressure on that shoulder and I'm feeling now, oh, am I feeling. He snips the remainder of the bandages away and then, well, all touch is gone. Like the last time it left. On a broken road in Georgia.

He straightens but stays there, where he is supposed to be. And like being hypnotized, I give in; falling into familiarity. My lungs expand and release while I press my face into the ends of his pant leg and beginning of his boot. I exhale – breathe in. _Daryl._

The word _sorry _falls from my lips into the fabric of his pants and leather of his boot. He doesn't hear it, which is good; these fallen whispers are only for me to hear.

Beth quickly rounds the corner of the stairway, "What's the difference whose fault it is?" Golden, blonde hair and sweet-voiced, she grips the railing as in preparation for the first step. "What do we do?"

Both questions are valid. Blame is blame because it is fun to poke at people, weigh others down with the guilt of your own problems. And, honestly, what are we to do? Rick. My head turns to him, expecting something. I sit up from Daryl's sturdiness.

"I said we should leave," a voice, not Rick's, but Hershel's. He sits at the bottom of the stairs Beth is descending and she stops upon reaching him. "now Axel's dead. We can't just sit here."

We can't. But we can't run away from our problems and hope they blow over either. Rick? My eyes search for him but he has since abandoned his post. And that's when they find him – walking away, into the shadows, to Merle . . .

Why would he – ?

_"Get back here!"_

I jump, squeeze my eyes shut for a moment because maybe it will go away if I do. This floor is painful by now and I ache to rise. Hershel is up, Rick's stopped, and my eyes are open. The elder man assembles the crutches in the crooks of his armpits. He swings forward in swift motions.

I need to see this. Need to see this play out like an episode of a reality TV show I would never actually be able to watch. So I push up, forcing out body movement, and it hurts, yeah, but I do not let Daryl help me. _I'm . . . fine._

"You're slipping, Rick." Hershel informs the other man, talking to the base of his skull and hunched back weighed down by an assault rifle and grief and pain and guilt and exhaustion. "We've all seen it. We understand why. But now is not the time."

He's right, it's not. Whatever precious, tiny seconds we get not being one of those _things_, breathing or not, should be spent wisely. Planning and living in hope, not drowning. All I have been doing lately is drowning.

"You once said this isn't a democracy,"

_"I killed my best friend for you people, for Christ's sake!"_

No.

_"This isn't a democracy anymore."_

Yes. I can remember that night. Cold and exposed. The start of a long road home.

"Now you have to own up to that!" Rick finally starts turning, slow and mechanically, but he's moving, nonetheless. Maybe – maybe he gets it. What do his eyes say? "I put my family's life in your hands."

I can't quite tell. _Hold on._

Hershel decides he wants to talk softly now, _"So get your head clear . . . and do something."_

Rick's eyes are blank and lifeless. Like he's letting the monsters win because it's too hard, too overwhelming.

But Rick, we've been in over our heads for a long time now.

* * *

I saw what they did to her.

To Payton.

I didn't mean to because she doesn't know about before – or maybe she does, she's smart. Fact of the matter, I did not _want_ to look at what they did to her. But she was in the cell. A cell I can freely travel in and out of, ripping off a shirt of bed memories, and standing in a dark tank top. Even she stared while looking through the dusty and half-cracked mirror. Even Payton.

It was a hole. Or_ was_ one. A small hole that rips into you and causes you to bleed, makes your feelings and weaknesses tumble out, too. It's what holes in your life do. The stitching mending broken parts of flesh, trying to put pieces of pride back together, looked like a twisted game of tic-tac-toe where only _X's _win and you always get stuck with _O. _Her imperfection stretches across the front of her shoulder, under a protruding neck bone; lapping at her upperarm.

Payton and I's friendship was not established just because our backyards crashed into each other like waves, because it's a good thing to know your neighbors – no. I liked Payton because her house was big and airy and smelled like flowers, the ones not from the dollar store. Mrs. Ellington was cheerful and would leave lemonade and cookies for us out on the deck. Her dad was smart and clean, washed his hands a lot. The only alcohol present was wine, which I think is the more classy and expensive type; still, it smelled better than the bottles or cans of beer Dad would buy and not let go of.

I hung out with her because she was different; because she deserved to be two or three streets down, but yet lived _right there. _Payton was untouched by corrupt families and being with her family in that pretty house of theirs helped me not feel as much of what was happening another door down. Sure – it could be called using her but I never saw it as that. I still did crazy shit with her, under the spell of normalcy at the time.

But seeing her like that, torn open and down, made her exactly like me.

And I never wanted that.

So I gripped the cuffs of my shirt with little mobility my fingers possessed and shouldered my bow in a clumsy matter that had it thumping all my achy bones.

"It doesn't even hurt anymore." she had said, examining her own self-image in the mirror. That voice was not even her. It was dry and – and monotoned.

I fled.

Because, what else was I supposed to do?

She _can't_ know. Even if she already does I still can't say it, admit it outloud.

Outside doesn't smell like air fresheners and fruity wine. The aroma is earthly and I blend into it. I find the soles of my boots scooting across the catwalk's bottom, a place I have never explored much yet. Finding a place on the sides of chain-link where steel and wooden shields are not covering nature at its finest, I sit down. My knees instantly tuck under my chin in habit and I whine to myself that I want to chew on my fingers, but the bandages and scabbed lip restrict such movement. I wish it would rain, like actually rain, rain. Georgia rain is the usual of Earth saying: _"It's hot. Here you go." _and you get a pelting shower that lasts all of thirty minutes, an hour if you're lucky. I want a day where it is planned to rain and it goes on, softly, all day. Rain is said to cleanse the Earth, which is why it has that new car type of smell afterwards, only better. Mentally, I guess it already did rain here – _bullets. _Now I am just waiting for the sweet scent.

Axel's body is gone. They probably took him to the grasses not growing in the field because the undead rule once more; probably put him next to his buddy, Oscar, side-by-side. They were good, solid men. Besides, putting them elsewhere makes them not on prison property, _free at last._

Oscar and Axel would have wanted that.

There's scratching on the concrete. I blink, sniffle. My bow is to my left but it would be too late if I went to grab it now. I turn my head slowly, almost painful, because the last time I let my guard down – _yeah. _No one needs to know what happened back there, behind closed doors and four walls.

Carl's eyes haven't changed much, still sympathetic in their handle-with-care way. But I do not need that. His mouth twitches in a lopsided grin when our looks of green and blue clash. It's like him trying to cover up and say_ everything is going to be okay_ or _it will get better. _It's not, Carl, it has only gotten worse. Go ahead and live in optimism, if that is even the proper usage for the word – whatever. That can't change the past, what is going on with Woodbury, what we all know . . .

He sits down beside me, on my right, removing the hat. I try to figure out the words to say but he knows well words are not a strength of mine. A simple _hello _would not fit for this world and _goodbye _would be driving him off; I can't do that. Carl is always the one to stumble upon words first in the battle to break silence. Numb, blistering silence.

I guess Carl isn't going to bust his brain open and in a panic-stricken way, snatch up sound like kids with piñatas. And I figure that out when his fingers brush over mine and he examines the limb attached, bandages and all; his eyes running. I can feel the heat radiating off of him and it seeps through the cracks of my protective shell, straight into the wounds of my hands.

"It was dumb of me to ask if it hurt when Ed punched you." he says. "I know that now."

It takes me a moment to gather my bearings and comprehend just _what _he understands now because the whole incident was so long ago. I flex my hand as far as it can go, which is about a quarter of what its original capability was, and picture me knocking Ed's teeth out. I'm not afraid of people like Ed Peletier anymore.

_"No! Stop! Glenn! Stop! No!"_

Am I?

Those shrieking screams of terror that came from me and only me haunt me by night.

Carl keeps going on for the sake of talking because we can't let the quiet settle for too long, "I think I hurt my dad."

My forehead lifts in question. "How?" Maybe I shouldn't of asked because that could be considered intruding and no one likes being picked and prodded at – I don't – and –

"I told him he should stop."

"Stop what?" _Stop asking questions._

_"Being the leader."_

The surroundings freeze but we remain locked under the spell of time; ever changing, moving on now. I fix my gaze upon him and a rhythmical breeze seems to have my hair fall in slow motion. Or I could be caught in numbness, which seems like the better case. My mouth opens only no sound comes like I had planned and I sit gapping like a fish that wasn't nibbling on my finger way back at the farm, but rather plucked from the shadowy bay; all the while their life is withering and soul shrinking. But even something besides us eats fish and the Governor is coming.

"He needs a break," Carl assures, maybe more to himself than me, "Hershel's _right._ He just stumbles around out there and isn't here where he should be. People died and – and I – I _dealt with Mom and I'm still not running . . ." _Carl is small. I realize. He's small and frail as his voice squeaks off. We're both kids. He told me I shouldn't have to do all the heavy lifting and Rick may still have the instinct to come back when shit hits the fan, but how long until that runs out?

And so for once I reach out to the boy with the hat because he always lugs himself to me. I show him _something _since I feel bad and just because I don't like pity doesn't mean he won't mold into it either. We all have different needs. Same as how not one two fingerprints are alike, so touch and perception of this evolving sanctuary called _Earth _can be different to all.

Pads of my fingers press into the ends and threads of his battered t-shirt. It's a tentative touch, enough to gain attention, though; and I think that's the scary part. I hate the sheer knowing of someone's watching but yet I shove back the voice inside my hear screaming at me _No!_

"Everyone needs a break." And then I add, almost as an afterthought, _"I do."_

_I do._

He smiles. Without teeth. But still existing, still categorized as a smile. He smooth's two or three fingers – doesn't matter because I can't feel them – over the rough bandages and then our arms fall, tangled within one another but not holding on. We both turn to what remains of this day, which isn't much, three or four hours at best.

"I heard you named the baby." I say.

I don't see it but I feel him smile, again, maybe even a tooth-filled one since I'm not watching.

"Yeah, Judith. It's the name of one of my old teachers."

"I like it."

"She was the nicest lady I ever met." And then: "I was going to name her after you if – if anything happened." I close my eyes. _If. _"Or Anna . . . any – anyone else over _there."_

"Why?"

"Because they're pretty names."

Pretty names but sad faces.

"No. It's better that you named her after a good memory."

His pinky taps mine, wordlessly.

_Yeah._

It starts to drizzle . . . but there aren't any clouds in the sky.


	19. Chapter 18: Kalopsia

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 18: Kalopsia

After the light cascade of rain subsides I go back out. Carl and I had gone inside once we figured out Mother Nature had a bit of strength left in her. My bow now curls itself over my shoulder blade, shielding, and I hold onto it for anchorage. This time I am alone.

A puddle glistens in the crook of where the back part of cell block C runs into the courtyard. I walk towards it because it looks nice with the sun beating down and all. My legs seem to change length – which I know is untrue – as they attempt to accommodate the new terrain; blacktop that wasn't always this bad off. I think we learned about it in science one day . . . how the pressure of heat can lead pretty curtains to become faded and once sturdy ground to crack and dip. Maybe. That is just how environments get after time, at least. We also were told in school about perception, how you shouldn't judge a book by its cover even though you will anyways because it's the first thing you see. Mom – _Anna –_ would always try to make a good first impression with her sundress, the one with flowers, and adding brightness to her usual cloudy green eyes to make them more like the color of the trees, like mine. Purified. I never could understand how she did that . . . but people fell for it. I did. She preferred to play pretend on the outside and it was fun for me.

I never knew.

And I guess I fell for Mom's trick again because here up close the water doesn't look so appealing and fresh anymore. It looks old, the same way she did that night sitting at the kitchen table with a lit cigarette between her shaky fingertips. When I asked her about the object in her grasp I took her by surprise, and then she said she doesn't smoke. But _she was._

I toe the rainwater with my boot and it swirls, lightens a moment from the touch, and then darkens right back up. Cloudy from all of the dirt whirled in it, like Mom's eyes.

_Her name's Anna, dammit._

But –

_You made a deal with yourself._

Deals aren't the same as pinky promises . . .

There's a sound. A sound so small that could most likely be passed off as a house settling or the noises the world always makes. Only in this world every sound has a potential to be dangerous and I have hunter ears. My head flicks up, neck groaning some; it's tired. Hunter eyes dart around and settle on a presence. _Him. _He is looking at me and I look right back at him – it's a dull blue on never changing pine green. Both of our positions are leaning or slouched, weight and all.

I can't remember who starts moving first, him or me, but somehow we meet in the middle. Wordless.

Words need to be said between us, though, to make things _good _again, but that doesn't make piercing the barrier of silence any easier. Only adds pressure.

Daryl breaks through the barrier and it shatters into pieces; I think it was only made of glass, "Didn't wanna leave . . . not at the farm, and – and not then on the road."

My feet shuffle. They smack against the damp ground and my toes stir when they collide with the tips of my boots. That part determines whether or not a new pair is needed, but these worn boots always sit a bit loose; even with double-knotted laces. It's a wonder I'm still standing, though, and that they're even touching the ground at all. Things are blurry now, like the universe is spinning too fast and all I can do is try to regain focus.

"I had to." Daryl's words float to me, "It was _him _or _nothin' . . ." _No. It had to be _him. _There couldn't be nothing. Something needed to matter.

And before Merle's what mattered.

"But I already had somethin', so if you ain't gonna talk – I get it."

"Daryl – " my voice breaks off because the name is almost foreign on my tongue, and I haven't talked in so long. It's cracking and squeaking, still healing like everything else, I suppose. _"I don't hate you."_ A sense of indifference is what I feel. I guess. And it sounds childish because deep down betrayal is creeping up on me even though he was gone for one dark night, but I can hear my mom telling me: _"I'm not mad, just disappointed." _Maybe that is kind of how I feel, some part of it. Feeling empty is what disappointment is to me – I don't know – "It just . . ._ hurt; _because everyone else I used to know, they're _dead._ People are still _going _here – now." I'm struggling to pick up the pieces, to make sense of things. Why life must end remains an unanswered question to me. I've seen death, I know what it is, but you can turn a blind eye after time. The more you care, the more it hurts. "I just – I didn't – I didn't want you to be gone, too."

When people leave it's a safe bet to believe that they are not here anymore. Of course, telling yourself that they are still kicking is good, just the more you see – more I have seen – the less you want to.

Sound dims out. I breathe in deeply the earthly scent left behind by earlier rain. Daryl surveys the area. He's probably used to this factor of the planet's status after rain, but I'm not. I have only been here thirteen years, despite not all of them I truly lived, and I notice every little sensation given. With age maybe you become more ignorant to the way the world works. Perhaps, after all, I don't want to grow up so fast . . . unless I already have.

"I said you were good 'cause you didn't come with me." Daryl says and I'm confused. "Merle can be – " He grips his crossbow strap, shifts, sighs, "It's hard to get 'im."

Carol told me people like Merle can get into your head, under your skin. Even with the break I guess Daryl never got the chance to shake his brother off. Family and blood are the hardest beings to not follow.

Daryl continues, dragging me from my thoughts, "He didn't try anythin' – "

"No." I intercept, quickly, because the mere thought of _that _makes me shudder. "Nothing like that." I never thought he would, either, but Daryl knows him better. It's something no one talks about – or wants to – but it also needs to be known. What they did to Maggie – I saw – _yeah._

Some never looked at the word _human_ long enough to realize the word makes up most of _humanity._

I look down. Down at what I am, what I've become; even if I can't see it all. Everything on the outside looks washed up: my boots, my clothes – the rest is marked with scars and wounds. Truth is, I can't see who I am . . . but I can feel it. I raise my head up to Daryl. _Breathe._ I see him. He sees me. Maybe that's why individuals can be compatible with one another, which is a unit, a group – _us._

Back to what defines me. I cradle one bandaged hand within another, maneuvering around the bow perched on my shoulder. "I got glass stuck in my palms because Merle shot out the window of our car." I curl my fingers in, the pain floating to the surface. It feels like I'm floating right now. Almost. I'm talking very sadly, very quietly, as if Daryl was not even here anymore, "The rest was because I decided I wanted to have a voice."

It all comes back. There's Merle and Glenn and Maggie and the good guy I tried to kill, the ones I did, and voices and blood and guns and blood – _hurt. _There's a lot of hurt and I'm going to explode, my head is, because the Governor actually did pull the trigger and I can't breathe.

I fall into Daryl. My bow is most likely stabbing him but he doesn't care. He tries to understand and I try to breathe.

"You're alright . . ." Daryl's muttering. I'm rocking but I can't feel my legs. "Jus' breathe."

And so I do. Because this is a panic attack and I never died and he's right, I'm okay – _tell yourself that._ When I relax it stops spinning and for once, for a moment, I can make sense of everything. It's level.

"Daryl, I don't want to cry over it anymore." I say, sniffling, blinking. "I just want to _be."_

"Be good?"

"Yeah. Got to."

Daryl doesn't say anything, but he does tighten his grip because he knows it's true.

* * *

**Just a heads up, I rewrote the prologue and first chapter of Holding On and Letting Go. They should hopefully now explain more backstory to evade confusion that could possibly pop up down the road.**

**Thanks for reading.**

**~ Rainy**


	20. Chapter 19: Nostalgia

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 19: Nostalgia

Now, walkers are just background noise; like traffic on the Interstate if you live near the city or cricket chirps in the countryside. They're apart of this world. I can't hear their groans in discomfort while I remain at my post; stand my ground behind wood pallets and chain-link. Carl is with me in this box and Maggie's a few yards off. We all have rifles except mine is resting against the modified walls. Binoculars are in its place for the time being. I said I would take watch with Maggie and Carl while I was still recovering because _I had to_ . . . because I can't rot in my cell and look at marks from the past. Acting like it is still the way it was with the group, setting things back into place, restoring order – that is how it stays _good. _And so I shake the ghosts off, and head back to watch. _For me. _

Through the binocular lenses, I watch what refuses to die stomp on our lands. But one that pushes through the pines, branches smacking its decaying flesh, isn't moving as haphazardly as the rest. It has found a purpose.

I nudge Carl and he lowers the rifle gently as I hand over the binoculars, whispering, "Geek at the back's movin' all weird." He scans the area, fingers brushing over the dials to focus the binoculars. Carl gives them back to me after a moment and he nods _our nod. _I nod back. He helps me get the binocular strap over my head where it once was.

_"Psst!" _Carl gains Maggie's attention. "Somethin' strange out there . . ." His voice is strangled and breathy because it has to be. Maggie raises her rifle's scope up to eye level. I wait.

_"Andrea!"_ she almost sounds like a ghost. _"Get your dad and the others!"_

I think about Andrea, think about how I cursed at her before, how she was dead until she wasn't, how she's on the other side of the fence – I like Andrea but I don't know if I can. All thoughts about the woman turn cloudy once Carl and I reach our cell block, though, because there is too much going on to think about it. Carl calls for Rick and he's close, so he comes fast. Wide-eyed and a bit nervous, I tell him,

"Andrea – she's here."

The others are here, too, everyone piled into these close quarters. I keep my eyes on Rick just so it's not too overwhelming, like being backed into a corner.

"Is she alone?" he asks.

"I – I don't know. I didn't see . . ."

Rick tenses for a second, I see him, but it quickly snaps away because he is good at hiding. He turns to everyone, hands on hips, and speaks to the crowd,

"Alright. No one goes outside without a gun. Keep your guard up, we don't know what we're dealing with."

* * *

I don't know if I could – or if I would want to – hurt Andrea because she's not a stranger. Her face is recognizable, name rolls of my tongue easily – she's not – not _bad._ But our stance says otherwise when we bust out of the cellblock from all directions, guns blazing like how it was with Woodbury. I'm back at my spot with Carl and Maggie. I think I saw glimpses of Carol, Hershel, and Glenn scurry across the fortified catwalk, but I am not sure. What I can see and is a confirmation in my brain, though, is Rick, Daryl, Merle, Michonne, Payton, and Beth filing out to our silver pickup. The six of them float around the vehicle for cover, for a shield, and I don't want anything to happen to it because it's _ours. _But I don't think Merle would shoot it down because things are reversed, and he wouldn't destroy his protection. Andrea approaches with an armless walker on a pole. Last time I saw someone try to handle one was on the farm . . . with the barn –

My grip on the rifle loosens some when I finally see Andrea not only because my bandages make my palms sweat and finger slip, but also because I don't feel like I could touch the trigger. If I would. If I should.

Even if her new friends pop up.

Even then.

Rick, Daryl, and Merle rush towards the fence, the dividing line between us and the dead that used to stretch further. The other three stay back and even stand down some when swirls of straw-blonde hair peek through the chain-link. I can only guess that they have the same overwhelming feeling of wrongness as I. We can kill the living, but not ours; not the_ good_ ours, anyhow.

If Andrea's still the same way we left her. If she can be like how we mused over during the winter months, quietly honoring her since we never really knew.

"Are you alone?!" Rick barks while barreling down the center of Merle and Daryl's forms as they provide cover. They're not letting up.

Up here I have better leverage on Andrea and squinting through the scope that's collected some dust particles, I watch her teeth clench from her attempts to hold onto the walking dead. She shouts, struggling with the unknown creature, "Open the gate!"

I haven't heard her voice in months but my brain discovers the familiarity, nonetheless. I try to figure out if it changed because she did. Rick's back hits the fence, pressing against it, and I hear the _CLINK _sound the object makes when all of the pieces holding it up bounce off one another.

_"Are you alone?" _he tries again.

But Andrea just ignores his question like she did before; if she even hears him, if she cares at all. Fear can override all train of thought or making sense of things, like the importance of our leader's words. She really should say _something_, though.

So she does. She screams his name . . . more urgently than her earlier shouting. I think she's getting scared or – or nervous about the company which her friends put in the field swarming her. Rick decides to grant her access because we knew her before, because we don't _just let people die. _He tosses the keys to Daryl who jiggles around with the rusted lock before it opens. Merle pulls it back while Andrea releases her walker back into the wild like an animal. She could have put it down; there are enough of them out there to go around.

As soon as Andrea steps foot into our territory Rick throws her up against the fence and begins snapping police-like orders at her. I flinch, the line of my mouth turning up and folding in. Daryl and Merle are the only two on the floor with their weapons drawn because we're trying to act big and mean. Mine has been down for a while. A geek pounces on the other side of the chain-link and the barrier is thin, so Andrea jumps away. Rick drags her down to the blacktop, roughly ripping her bag from her shoulders and throwing it somewhere the sun can't go because of the prison's shade.

Carl and I walk down because there's no point in pretending to be soldiers when we're not. My bow is on one shoulder while the rifle takes the other. I feel weighed down. Carl tries to relieve the burden but I don't let him – I can't. Andrea's eyes – which I can't really see all that well because it is late and the sun is low – flick to me because that is what you do when you haven't seen someone in a while. When family members tell you you've gotten bigger but you didn't really notice, cannot feel it.

Because deep down I'll always be that twelve-year-old kid in a warehouse who couldn't afford to lose a cop because that's all she had left.

* * *

By the time I make it into what's supposed to be home, where my friends, my family, stand – Andrea doesn't have Rick breathing down her neck but she also has nothing to hurt us with besides her voice. Carol and Andrea are hugging as I pass, but that welcoming instinct is not found within me. I step up on a seat and climb on top one of the rounded tables in the small room, sitting on the surface because my bones are throbbing from sliding across the courtyard's base earlier. Carl helps me the little bit I let _him_ and he takes the hunting rifle from me. When he tries to add the bow to mix, however, I shake my head and it stays in my lap, my hands run over dips in the wood. Carl keeps close and Daryl sits beside me. I seek out Payton in the mix and she's not far either; by Michonne's side and looking at Andrea a little funny. She seems okay, for what it is worth.

Carol murmurs something to Andrea before they break away. Before Andrea takes notice to change.

"Hershel, my God . . ." she breathes in a mix-up of shock and disbelief. Hershel is directly in her line of vision and he's standing tall and balanced by the likes of his crutches. His one pant leg still droops and eats away at nothing. Andrea twists her body around – looking, examining; possibly judging . . . I try not to meet eyes. My thumb rises to my mouth, but my lip is scabbing and most of the digit is blanketed in white. I sigh. "I can't believe this . . ." More wonder from Andrea before her head whips to Rick, who's directly to my right, gripping the edge of the table because even people who can walk sometimes need help staying balanced. "Where's Shane?"

For a long time, I forgot Shane even existed – or – or I tried to. Doesn't mater. There's always reminders.

"And Lori?"

Heads go down, collective headshakes. I swallow at Carl, give Andrea a _look. _These questions feel wrong even though she doesn't know; how could she? I don't want to feel it . . .

"She had a girl," Hershel tries to explain. "Lori didn't survive."

Maggie adds, "Neither did T-dog."

Yeah. I know all about that.

_"Me and Carol will take this way, but you have to go back with the others."_

He could have gone with me, too, if we tried really hard.

_"We'll meet you in the cell block."_

He never did.

And Dale never came back from his walk.

Andrea says she's sorry, she's sorry for the sorrows she wasn't here for. She tries to tell Carl how bad she feels but he narrows his eyes. _Don't. _

She looks at our leader again, "Rick, I – "

He backs up. There's a lot of sniffling and heavy breaths flowing around.

"You all live here?" Andrea asks, trying to clear our heads.

"Here and the cell block." answers Glenn. He's holding the nozzle of his harmless rifle since the safety is on.

She points to something behind me. "There?"

He nods, I turn to look, and yeah, that's the familiar barred door I've hid behind and snuck out of and cried behind and smiled behind. That's it.

"Well, can I go in?" Andrea takes a step towards the door, but Daryl nudges me back, and Rick comes forward with his chest puffed, getting in her face, blocking her,

"I won't allow that."

"I'm not an enemy, Rick."

They shift back and forth, dancing around each other, until Rick states, "We had that field, courtyard – " He gestures to the world beyond the prison walls. " – until your _boyfriend _tore down the fence with a truck and shot us up."

Andrea pauses. "He said you fired first . . ."

"No." I say, holding my bow tighter. "He started it . . . _again."_

Hershel talks, "He killed an inmate who survived in here."

"We liked him. He was one of us." says Daryl lowly and gruff. Somehow, I can't believe him. I remember how it was before I left on that run between us and the inmates, unless it all changed.

Andrea has her hand to her face – she's stressed, upset – "I didn't know anything about that. As soon as I found out, I came." She spins around to look at all of us. _No. _Her eyes go from me, to Glenn, and then Maggie. "I didn't even know you were in Woodbury until after the shoot-out!" Her eyes dart between the three of us. I don't want to think about _that _but her people must really keep her in the dark, then. Huh –

"That was _days _ago." counters Glenn.

Two or three. Give or take.

She claims she got here as soon as she could, but not soon enough; it never is. And what does she think she can do? Make the pain go away? Kiss our wounds better? _No._ No, because I still remember . . .

"What have you two told them?" she questions Michonne and Payton who are leant against and gripping some metal-cage-thing. Andrea had her back facing them this whole time but she must have felt . . . something.

"Nothing." responds Michonne.

"I don't get it. I left Atlanta with you people and – and now I'm the odd man out?" She's right. We did leave Atlanta together but then she _left us. _She joined the other team, the other team that killed people that mattered, and then expects everything to be okay? It's not – it – _it's not okay._

I listen to Glenn's voice because it helps, it's easy to listen to: "He almost killed Michonne and he would've killed us – "

Andrea points up to Merle who's on the top of steps, holding an assault rifle. He is guarding the door, like it matters. "With his finger on the trigger! Isn't he the one who _kidnapped you? Who beat you?"_

Her voice leaves an echo that stings. _Yeah he – he did. _I look down and it feels like the distance between the people around me is shrinking, and they're getting closer. Andrea notices. She stops.

_"Look," _her voice is real quiet now, "I cannot excuse or explain what Philip has done – "

_Philip? _Of course, first name basis. He doesn't even deserve to have one . . .

" – but I am here trying to bring us together. We have to work this out!"

Rick shakes his head. He moves closer. "There's nothing to work out. We're gonna kill him. I don't know how, or when, but we will."

We can settle this, according to Andrea. Also, according to her, there's room in Woodbury for all of us and I'd be able to sleep without the ghosts of what happened in a back storage room haunting me, and we wouldn't have to worry about someone slitting our throats in our sleep – or worse. _Bullshit. _Merle chuckles and says she knows better than that, and for once, I agree.

"What makes you think this man wants to negotiate?" Hershel asks. "Did he say that?"

"No."

"Then what's the point?" I speak, questioning Andrea. My voice cracks a bit from not being used all that much. "He wanted to kill me, he was gonna – just didn't have enough bullets to do it . . ."

There's time before she replies. " . . . He's gearing up for war. The people are terrified; they see you all as killers." I am, though. "They're training to attack."

"I'll tell you what – " starts Daryl, "Next time you see _Philip, _you tell 'im I'ma take his other eye." I look at him. He nods.

"We've taken too much shit for too long," Glenn states. "He wants a war, he's got one."

_"Rick." _And her tone – it's begging Rick, it's warning him, "If you don't sit down and try to work this out . . . I don't know what's gonna happen. _He has a whole town."_

Rick doesn't say anything, just stares and let's his eyes do the talking like adults do when they're upset. Andrea huffs and turns, talks to us all again,

"Look at you. You've lost so much already. You can't stand alone anymore."

I don't need pity, don't want it. Not from Andrea and not from anyone else.

Rick snaps to life, then. "You want to make this right, get us inside."

"No – "

"Then we've got nothing to talk about."

And so he walks off, pushing through the cell block's entrance that he's been silently protecting from Andrea's touch all this time. The door squeaks.

"There are innocent people!" Andrea shouts, her voice chasing Rick's retreating form.

Yeah. And if you look at it a little hard, then we are, too.

* * *

"So you all were with Andrea way back when, huh?"

Payton observes or asks this – I can't pick between the two – and I know she already was aware of the involvement; she stayed with Andrea during the winter. If Merle hadn't of connected the dots through the tall trees in the woods when we were all at each other's throats, her and I – we wouldn't have known any secrets. It wouldn't have been worth fighting choked words if the information wasn't spilled for us. Ghost stories aren't that scary anymore, just saddening, and I guess that's why we haven't talked about Andrea until now; no more is she a ghost.

"Yeah." I reply. "In Atlanta . . . and on a farm."

The two of us are in a dull cell that I threw my belongings down in and claimed as my own long ago. Before we made our own noise, there were others taking its place: tense discussions indicating a divide in the house, a fussy baby until someone came and bounced her around, so she'd smile because it is something new. And then all that was left was brutal silence as some went out to take their own turn at searching for the monsters of the world.

I'm on my bunk and Payton is found in the chair in the corner, where she likes to be, curled up like a cat while she slowly cleans her knives of old dirt to provide her body with something to do. She talks some more, keeps the conversation moving along, "Andrea said that she was with a group before, they were good. That's all I knew of it 'cause Michonne didn't like to talk about the past."

_Who does?_

The clatter of knives on the built-in, broken sink is what wraps around my head and forces it up. Payton no longer has her weapons and I can see the handles peeking over the basin of the sink. She rubs her hands on the same rough towel she cleaned the knives with, throwing the object when she's done.

"You know, I talked to Andrea a little after that Sheriff y'all love so much walked away from everything like he usually does. There's a reason – a damn good one if you ask me – why Michonne and I are actin' a bit sour on her." Payton's thick hair strands of black and curly are flopped over every which way. She pulls her long legs closer to her abdomen so it's more comfortable to sit in since the chair is small. The laces of her boots are untied and clearly flattened from being underfoot one too many times, the ends dangle off the seat frayed. "Andrea got sick when the three of us were out there. I kept quiet most of the time, but no one had to be too loud to figure out that it wasn't just a cold passing through. I mean, that's what happens when the world decides to end the same year we have the coldest winter." She laughs more to herself than to anyone really because that's her, that is what Payton does. "Point is, Woodbury may have saved Andrea from becoming one of those rotting freaks outside, but after that, it tainted her. When we walked out of those gates she didn't follow, not like all of you here. She was too caught up in the illusion of some society playing pretend that she couldn't see it. Andrea would rather stay with people that possibly could have her back on a good day instead of friends that would take a bullet for her – Michonne took one for me."

Her eyes wander to the doorway not because someone is there but because they need somewhere to go.

"And that's why I hate that stupid town the most. It ruined one of the few people I still gave a damn about."

* * *

Tall like the pine trees circling our refuge, a wide archway releases two red doors. Maggie and Carol help them reach the edge of their hinges. Subtle yet warm is the purr of an engine as a police car that's been sitting for longer than it would have liked rolls through the opening. The gates close because out there is the unknown, a place of the prison we haven't explored, and it's why this place will never quite feel like home.

Glenn exits the car once it's parked, leaving the driver door hanging open. And Andrea, she steps forward because we're all here in this back alley that I've most likely stumbled into on my thoughtful walks. Her bag is back with her, for we can stand on equal ground; just for Andrea. She made this call but yet she still asks, throwing her satchel up over her shoulder,

"Can you spare it?" The car, she means, and she's not talking to anyone besides Rick. I don't think we need it because it has always sat out back while our green car, the truck, motorcycle – they're always ready. Those are the vehicles I feel safe in, anyways; ones I can get lost within the world while sitting in as someone I trust drives. _Secure. _

Our cars are us.

That sad authority one is not.

So yeah, we can spare it.

"Yeah . . ." Rick's answer comes wrapped in a whisper.

Birds talk to each other. Andrea looks around at us like she won't ever see us again – at least on good terms – and it sends an unsettling feeling down in the pits of my stomach. I swallow. Nod at her.

She nods, too; but not like Carl and me just . . . just in general. "Well, take care." Her voice is sincere and it is almost is as if she doesn't want to leave. But she wanted this.

Only she needs to be somewhere else.

Clambering into the car, my eyes follow her sad, hollow figure. Rick speaks her name once the car door shuts with a small sound since there are buildings around.

He hands her something through the open window. _A gun _– a little black pistol. "Be careful."

"You too."

And they mean it, they both do, which is why a weight settles on my chest when the car starts pulling away. It – it just feels down and – and _sad. _We follow after the vehicle, all with our weapons out. I don't think anyone is coming but being prepared is the right thing to do, it is what the grownups do, anyhow. My bow and arrow won't do much but I hold it close because it makes me feel better, I guess.

Everyone except for the two forms in front of me – Daryl and Merle – stop when they get to a certain point under the catwalk; run out of road. I go a ways further until I'm in what remains of the sun because today is fading out like a flame on a candle. Merle gets the gate for Andrea. Daryl stops and I'm caught between the body of him and those of the others.

While Andrea drives off I can only hope that the next time we meet she won't be at the end of my notched arrow.

* * *

Darkness comes and swallows us up. Carl goes to watch the stars and us. He carries out a rifle bigger than him because they were never built for kids like us, anyway. I try to go with him, my partner, because that is just how things are and what I know. The boy stops me, though, and Daryl gives me a look I am familiar with, so for once, I stay. I just – I just _be_ . . . be good.

I'm sitting on a pillow or two with my back resting on the wall. Carol, Beth, and Glenn are with me and Glenn and Beth play a game of checkers by the light of a lantern on the floor. Carol watches. They invited me to join but I declined, said it hurt too much to move my hands like that; but if you strip off the bandages and take them away, I just don't know how to play. The two of them do not need to know that, though.

I turn my head to the window built up high above and marked with bars. I try to imagine the bars not being there, so I look at the stars within the gaps, see them all up there. More of them show these nights because we're not near the city and factories haven't been running for over a year. I search for the Big Dipper and once found, trace the constellation with my eyes like it matters. And somehow, it does. _Just has to._

My ears pick up on a fuss of a baby and Rick walks from the shadows of a cell on the top floor, holding a wrapped-up Judith.

It's quiet after that, for a moment. I hold myself because it makes me feel better. Sometimes, I get a sinking alone feeling. Even in a group of friends. Or family.

_"They hung a sign up in our town._

_If you live it up, you won't live it down."_

Beth's singing voice echoes around the room and wraps around me like a blanket. I have never heard the song before but right now, it is merely . . . _nice. _It helps me remember how much I miss the tapes stored in the glove box of my dad's pickup.

_"So she left Monte Rio, son,_

_Just like a bullet leaves a gun."_

Rick slowly descends the stairs but chooses his foot placement carefully since his sleepy daughter is in his arms. When he gets to the bottom, he walks over to Hershel and Daryl by the cells down here. Glenn stands and sits with Maggie on the steps.

_"With charcoal eyes and Monroe hips,_

_She went and took that California trip."_

I swivel in my seat and set the pillow back and flat on the ground. Then, I lie back, put my hands under my head, stare at the ceiling – I sigh, long and soft, letting tension release. And this time, _I'm okay. _For the first time in a long time, _I am relaxed. _There are shadows of us and other objects plastered on the ceiling. I breathe.

_"Well, the moon was gold and her hair like wind;_

_Said don't look back now,_

_Just come on, Jim."_

I picture Old Blue and I'm sitting in the passenger side while my sneakers with unusually long laces rest up on the dash. My dad is in the driver's seat but we're not going anywhere, sitting still in the driveway. Some rock music cracks through the old radio and he's bouncing in his seat, drumming on the leather steering wheel. I laugh. And Mom, well, she's on the porch holding a cup of coffee and _smiling. _It's Saturday.

_"You gotta hold on,_

_Hold on._

_You gotta hold on._

_Take my hand,_

_I'm standing right here,_

_You gotta hold on."_

I lived for those Saturday mornings.


	21. Chapter 20: Common Interests

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 20: Common Interests

The walls around me aren't beige anymore when I wake up, a color chosen because my parents did not know whether I was going to be a boy or girl. My mattress is small and hard, and if I roll over anymore I will be on a floor I swear used to be carpeted. I also don't remember when I got bunk-beds because when I sit up I almost hit my head on the underside of a mattress above.

Why did I paint over my beige walls with steel grey again?

Dad might know but he's still sleeping across the hall, I can hear his snores.

I stand. My hands hurt and they are covered in a blanket of white. _Bandages. _I cannot seem to think of when they appeared, like most things. There is a mirror in my room, but I have always had one. I go to it and it is cracked a little, but sometimes I hit things when I am angry. Dad does, too – also sometimes – and I guess I got it from him since in school they talk about inheriting stuff you're your parents.

_What day is it?_

I could have gotten these bandages from the cracked glass in the mirror; I think that before I look at myself.

And then I'm backing away from the image in the distorted mirror because that isn't me. I start feeling again and my palms are sore, body aches at some ends. That thing in the mirror is me because I remember now, I do. I swear I do – everything – all of it –

_My name is River Parks. I am thirteen years old. I live in Georgia . . . in – in a prison with people I care about. My parents are dead. Dad never woke up and that is not him snoring. Mom never came home – she came out of a barn. I do not know what day it is because I lost count after it stopped mattering. It has been a year, a year since it all. This is what I know. This is what is important._

I am standing in the middle of a cell – my cell – and my knees give way, leaving me to sink to the floor.

How could I – how could I – ?

"What's wrong?"

Payton. She's here, up on the top bunk. And she is _looking _at me.

"I'm an idiot . . ." I say. I clench my fists and tears are taunting me, demanding to be shown. I swallow down the lump in my throat so I can get ready to talk again. Payton swings her legs and jumps down from her bunk. It must hurt. "Payton . . . I – I –_ I forgot._ How – how could I? _How could I_? I'm so stupid . . ."

Payton comes forward. She touches my shoulder and I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut. "You were pretty out of it last night. Daryl practically carried you up here. River – it's okay, you gotta know that. We all forget – "

"I didn't see you last night." I remember.

"I was there, just further back. Didn't want to interrupt your sing-song campfire thing,"

"You should be asleep now."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

I turn my head and actually look at her for once. _"Don't say that."_

I get to my feet.

And she says,

"It's the truth. No one likes tellin' it."

* * *

There's a run. A run I want to shy away from because they always hurt more than they should, always end up going down that road I am afraid of. There is a run, I am scared, but I need to go. Because this road is the long road home.

I tell Payton this. Me – standing in all my glory with a scabbed face and healing hands. I talk about this place we used to know because finally, _finally, _we can _know_ just – just something together.

"They're going home," I inform her; quick, almost excitedly. And I know I might not want to feel that way because there is no room for it and there's no telling what will be down there, but home is home. I'll never forget. It will remain up on that pedestal I put it up on in my head, even if I swore I hated it sometimes.

"Already went," Payton replies, bored tone, "Nothing to see."

I don't understand. I can't seem to organize a thought of how she could say that when we're on the catwalk where the air is light and there's lots of it to breathe, when the sun is out and warming up my back. So I ask, 'cause there are some questions I gotta, "What did you see?"

_"It was gone_ . . . _my house."_ Her eyes dart down, and then back up. She puts a hand on the small collection of knife handles attached to her belt and grips them, maybe squeezes a tad. I get that. I turn to my bow at times. A nervous tick. "Like – like it didn't even matter before – _Burnt down to nothing . . ." _Payton's boots scrape across the concrete while she readjusts herself to be prepared to talk again. I do not think I have ever seen her cry, or if I remember I have. Usually we'd know if someone would cry within the group of neighborhood kids back home because it would be worked up to. That is something I never comprehended about Payton; she could cry whenever she wanted to, but I can't recall seeing it. But she will. We all do. "I only went back 'cause after I was alone I started thinking of all those little, useless things and – and I remembered . . . I remembered that I never let Sammie out."

Sammie was the pony I could see out of my bedroom window. The pony that was there because Payton lived in the back end of town that had a lot of land to spare. I'd look for him when things got bad behind closed doors or when I just needed something to see. He always seemed like he had someplace to go or be, but I don't think he even knew where that place was.

Payton goes on, "The house was in ashes . . . but he was still there, in the pasture. He had tried to get out, but he was only so big. His legs were all torn up and there was _blood _on the fence. Sammie was scared and – and maybe I was, too." She starts looking at me again. I just watch. "I had a choice. I could have kept him with me because there was no one else. _But I let him go. _All that time, those years I had him – all he wanted to do was run . . . _So I let him go."_

"Did you cry?"

Her stiff fingers release her weapons and the muscles in her hand relax and fall. "Think I might've,"

There is something wet on her slightly scarred face but I do not think she feels it. "Yeah. I think you might've, too."

Payton steps closer. "You should go to King County. If that's what you wanna do, I won't hold you back."

I nod. "Okay."

For once I feel like I might know some part of Payton Ellington.

* * *

There are just things you have to do in life. Some things where other people's opinions do not matter as much, even though you tend to rely on them, and one way or another you are going to make it happen. This is what I try to explain to Rick, Leader Rick, as I fight to keep my voice strong and steady. I think he would want that; he does talk in that way, anyhow – gown-ups do. I'm not one but I can try. _I can try._

This is my hometown. This is endgame.

"I know every time I've walked through those gates it's gone to crap, but, I need to go. I need – I need to know that it won't be like that all the time because it can't be, right?"

_Right?_

Rick – the one I know – agrees. "Alright. If that's what you see as best."

I stumble on thoughts, on words. There's a reason Carl and I snuck out during the winter for that run. Rick is a territorial leader and protective. He would have never let us go without a fight, without some kind of stern, down-talk. But now here he stands accepting and quiet. I want it to be easy, of course I do, but I want to also feel that coming – know about it, predict it. Otherwise, I feel vulnerable like now.

Sometimes, he can forget because he's so used to those short talks with low voices the adults do. Rick can forget my impossible ideas, Carl's, too. I remind him of what I am because I feel weird and my bow isn't here to grab at, "I'm a kid."

"Yeah. I know." Rick beings walking forward either because the conversation is done or he thought of something else then, maybe both. In passing, he touches the place my bow would be and it is a warm and soft touch. "That's why I'm lettin' you tell Daryl about it."

* * *

"You ain't goin'."

His words don't surprise me much when I reveal the run information. I could feel it in the air, something about the way my words fell heavy to his ears.

"I know," I sigh. My bow is strung awkwardly over my shoulder for once – quiver, too – because I am geared up and ready to go. I don't make a move towards it, though. "But I still am."

_"What?"_

"Rick'll be there, Daryl. I have to – "

"Don't do this."

I ask what I shouldn't. What he knows, what I know, what Rick knows, Payton, everyone – "Why?"

"'Cause you're hurt." he states, but he's right. And I know all about my hands and lip and almost-concussion-but-just-slight I had. "'Cause you'll just go on and – and get hurt again."

My eyes go down for a moment. I sniffle. _"Yeah . . ." _I speak in a breath, looking up, "But it's a place I used to know. A place I lived." I'm blinking, shaking to contain everything inside because I will not explode, no, I won't. _"Home."_

Daryl pulls me to him. It's sudden and unexpected, so I stiffen up until the wave of uneasiness passes. I shake and sway back-and-forth, could even be crying in that "might've" way Payton was talking about. My cold fingers grip the leather creases in his vest the little they can, my nose buries in his shoulder to make sure I'm breathing okay. _Good._

I don't participate in the concept of hugs and have not done so to anyone in a long while; never even properly "hugged" Daryl, of all people, before. These days, it's mostly hurling yourself into others and using their weight to help ease the pain for a little while.

"I really don't hate you." I say.

"Yeah, you said,"

_"But I don't."_

I leave the embrace, backing up. Daryl ducks his head for a second, bobs his head, drawing his lips in.

"Better be goin', then. Rick's leavin' soon."

* * *

Some parts of the outside world are still and quiet. As if they're stuck in another place, another time; like nothing that happened _happened. _We're driving through one of those places now and it's empty, but slow. Time back home passes fast, or seems to. We're always pressed, we're always doing something; it can be hard to get a grip. Maybe in the areas like the one I'm seeing out of my car window – maybe they just haven't caught up yet.

Michonne is at the wheel. One of her hands is molded around the circular object as the car glides down a slab of pavement we call a road. Rick is sitting in the passenger seat with his arm settled on the inside of the car door. Carl's in the seat behind him and his eyes are pointed down, like he's mad about something. The Sheriff hat rests between us and no one will know what's wrong with the boy, not even me, because not a word is spoken in the confines of my favorite vehicle in the group.

I'm behind Michonne, strapped in by my seatbelt like the rest of us because I guess that, of all things, still matters. I sit up straight and aware, unknowingly tensing at some bumps in the road or tight turns. My body is used to the forces of Rick or Daryl or Glenn's driving, and I am unsure if I trust Michonne yet. Despite Payton's efforts to assure her friend's loyalty, she's holding something back, I know that for certain. Perhaps it's characterized by her sharp, dignified driving. The others nudge our cars along, asking and not telling because fuel is a gift these days.

Michonne will take flight eventually. It's all about when and where.

Occasionally, her eyes check the mirrors – maybe out of old habit, maybe not – even though there are no other cars to search for. I glance away whenever I feel her gaze near, like I wasn't even looking in the first place.

Up ahead there's movement and we break from the once-upon-a-time world to the real one. It's a man with an orange backpack, and he zaps to life once he spots our green car approaching. Orange Backpack jumps up and down, flailing his arms, yelling,

_"Hey! Hey! Slow down! Slow down!"_

I guess I half expected Rick to tell Michonne to slow down and pick up the guy, we have an empty spot in the car. But he doesn't, no, Rick barely rolls his eyes over the form of the orange backpack man while we pass. I watch the stranger over the car seats, then through Carl's window as he runs against our car, running a losing battle. And finally, I watch him through the dusty back windshield – like all of the pieces of glass surrounding the car – as he falls to his knees, helplessly and weighted. His orange bag slides up to his neck while he slouches and shouts one final thing:

_"I'm beggin' you!"_

I almost want to roll down my window and tell him in a shout-like way that if he was just one year, one year earlier, his begging would be accepted. Rick's begging at the CDC worked, but now mercy is not shown as easily. I don't know if I can trust strangers anymore – after last time – _I tried_ –

Down another hill, and we come across a car accident in the middle of the road. Michonne pulls off to the shoulder to start driving around through the grass and I'm staring out my window at the scene because, well, _it's a car accident._

There is four vehicles total, all of which spark curiosity within me so I can start to piece together what happened some time ago. Our own vehicle confronts the flank of the accident and I first see a lanky-looking, silver car. Some of its car doors are thrown open at various spots, blood strewn across the side. The hood is curled into the red car's ahead bumper, leaving an indent, but the person inside, the thing in the driver's seat – _it's just dead. _Not a biter. The normal, dead body is slumped against a steering wheel dripping with the color red.

The red car isn't much different, bloody and battered. I eye it while we keep moving on and there are two bodies in the seats up front, just like the one in the silver-almost-grey car; the ones on the highway last year were the same. Some supplies are scattered across the blades of grass almost as if they were setting up camp, planning on staying a while.

But they never made it to _a while._

The other two vehicles are overturned: a RV and what looks like a bigger car – jeep maybe. What diverts my attention from the red and silver vehicles; though, and to the maybe-a-jeep are the hungry growls from a walker trapped beneath the larger car. I watch the geek as it writhes around on the ground, flopping like a fish out of water.

And I guess the others are looking at it, too, because no one notices we're stuck until the cars' tires are squealing and fighting to gain traction. Michonne now takes the time to ask the car to move forward instead of telling it by lightly tapping the gas, but then she eventually gives up and hammers the gas pedal. Except for the slight jerk in my seat held captive by my seatbelt, nothing happens. I look at Carl, but his eyes are on Michonne. Rick is staring at Michonne, too, and she points her eyes at him for a second; I don't know where to put my eyes so I force them outside. I sigh to help out in easing the building tension.

I guess right now we're equal to the undead freak pinned to the earth's surface, forced to see this horror scene every day.

There is a thump and then I have a walker in my face. It's a woman with long, scraggly hair and tattered clothes. I barely flinch at her presence, only squint my eyes for a second; by now about seven of her friends have joined the party. My bow is in the trunk and I can feel the urge of turning and grabbing it because this car doesn't have a closed-off trunk, but my actions decide not to match my thoughts. The walker drools on the window, licking the glass and snapping its blackened teeth at nothing. Her hands are pressed against the car window as well and I put my right hand to her left, all touch blocked off by a panel of glass. My green eyes make contact with her cloudy and milky, yellow ones.

She used to be like me.

My hand plops back in my lap when I hear Rick's gun cock and his voice,

"Cover your ears."

Giving a nod to Carl, I do just that.

* * *

"Hey,"

I look up from the dead walker I was toeing with my boot. We killed all the freaks by cracking our windows and sticking them through the gap. Some of my hair falls into my face; I push the chocolate colored strands back, step over another fallen body as I follow Leader Rick and Sheriff Carl. I have my bow just in case; even though I have a feeling we should be safe enough. Michonne went back into the car after all was said and done, and we came up with a plan.

Rick speaks to Carl and me while we crouch down in the grass, "Put somethin' under the car like this," I glance at what is in his hands: some kind of fabric tied around solid, short sticks. "with a little gravel and sticks. It gives you traction."

My dad didn't teach me much before he stopped being him. He taught me minor parts of living like how to tie my shoes or cut up my food right, nothing like Rick has. We never got around to much more. I think he wanted to. But alcohol and Mom had other plans.

"Wouldn't have to do it if she didn't get us stuck . . ." grumbles Carl, plucking a grass blade from the earth and pulling at it.

Rick pauses, looks to his son. "It was an honest mistake."

"She should have just gone around the other way."

Rick gets up and we follow. We start walking to where the car is stuck and I say,

"The road is blocked off, this shoulder is bigger." They turn to see me as I speak. "Can't really see the mud till you're stuck in it,"

Rick nods. _"Yeah."_ And we crouch down again.

"Why'd you even let her come?" Carl asks, persisting. "She took you to Woodbury, helped you get River out – yeah – but you said she just split on you after. And Oscar died and you guys – "

"It wasn't that simple." Rick cuts into Carl's thought train. And I already knew it wasn't, I was there. It's because of the Governor, because of Merle, because of Daryl, because of Payton, because of me – There wasn't time, there wasn't room to make a decision. I don't know if I trust her yet, but she kept Payton alive and she hasn't quite tried to kill us in cold blood yet. I'll see.

"I asked her to come today." declares Rick. "I didn't want to leave her at the prison if I wasn't there, not with Merle." He places his makeshift traction under the car tire. "_That _and we got common interests. For right now, we have the same problems. So maybe we can work them out together."

Another question from Carl, "What about her friend?"

"I'm figuring that out. She seems like she's got a head on her shoulders, it's why she's not here." That's when Rick's eyes are on me and acknowledging that I am present for this conversation. "We'll talk about it."

I nod.

"So, all of this, it's just for right now?"

"Yeah . . . just for right now."

_"Hey!" _Twisting my body around, I see Orange Backpack dashing down the leaf-littered road, waving his arms. We all stand. _"Don't leave! Please!" _Rick taps the metal of our green car and the engine rumbles to life. It gets over the sticks easily.

Rick eyes the man, puts his hands on his hips. "Let's go."

Carl opens the door for me and I get in, slide over to my side. I leave my bow in my lap and reach for the seatbelt. Rick decided that for some reason this guy is dangerous. We're not taking him in, we're not talking, we're not getting anywhere near him. Carl and Rick get in shortly after my seatbelt clicks into place. Right before Carl slams his door shut, I hear:

_"I'm okay!"_

But he's not good.

* * *

**Thank you.**

**~ Rainy**


	22. Chapter 21: Hometown Glory

**I'm still here.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 21: Hometown Glory

Payton was right.

It is all gone.

King County is so ragged it's hard to make it special. When I was _really_ a kid, the town held a – a _mystifying? _– is that the word I want? I think so. But the town, it had a mystifying factor, a sparkle, because it was mine. It was bright like flames but fast forward to present, and that same fire burns away the remains of the fallen undead. It is grey, and lonely, and empty.

It's just empty.

We head over to the police station first. I force my legs into the silent, resting darkness of the building for my own sake; I'm reluctant to proceed, but I try to hide it as best as I can. Cops made me uneasy before the turn . . . and it wasn't because I thought they were bad people, or that the law was a joke like Dad said – I didn't believe any of that. But the reasoning does lie within the range of ideas from the person I called my father. It felt like every time I'd get close to an officer, or they would glance my way because your eyes are always looking somewhere even when you're daydreaming, they would _know. _I thought that they could see right through me and despite that, they never spoke a word besides a greeting, I would not stick around for any more conversation. For some reason, I was scared of losing Dad and him not being there; though, he already wasn't. He was what I had, what I knew –

He wasn't like_ that_ before.

My eyes run over Rick's authoritative stance and Carl's Sheriff hat, and I figure being afraid never did do me much good.

The police station is trashed, I realize, as we enter. Tall cages like the ones we have back home at the prison hang open sadly, their locks broken; the shelves lining the walls are sideways. There's nothing here.

Rick walks into the center of emptiness, gripping his neck. He fills the room and then kicks at a rotting shelf. It snaps and slides to the concrete floor, almost slowly. I file in with Carl and Michonne, Rick shoves his gun into the holster on his thigh. I do not shy away as I used to when Rick was like this because I know he won't do much; to Carl and I, at least.

Michonne picks up a bullet shell from the floor, examining it, "You got any other police stations in town?"

_No. Just the one._ And I almost say that out loud, but then I don't. It's not my place. Not quite yet.

_"I was the police here,_" retorts Rick, lasting anger from the situation still present in his tone. He pulls himself back. "Me . . . and a few other guys. It ain't a big town."

I have to hold myself from staggering due to his words, because, Rick – ? He worked here, as a cop, _the Sheriff, _here . . . in – in King County? Where I live? _Here?_

And Carl – my eyes move to my friend. What about him? Lori?

We usually don't talk about where we came from anymore because it mostly just hurts now.

"There's other places to check," Rick scratches his forehead with a finger. "We – we may not have as many guns as were in here, but – "

"We _need_ as many guns as were in here." Michonne intercepts, giving the place a once over. "Ammo, too." she adds.

Rick agrees, and then says, "But right now, I only got a line on a couple. There's a few places out on main street – bars, liquor stores."

I curl my hands into fists. _Yeah. _My hands have been feeling a bit better the past hours, less pain, but still bandaged. They throb when I press my fingers into them, but it's the only way I can release the memory. I don't like to think about alcohol in King County.

"Owners had a gun or two behind the counter that people didn't know about," I continue to listen to Rick. He nods at himself, self-assurance. "I did. I signed the permits."

I try figure out how I didn't know the Grimes' were here while Rick talks himself through the plan. Then again, I didn't know a lot of people in King County, just another face walking down the sidewalk.

I guess sometimes the people you will come to care about the most might be right under your nose the whole time.

Rick asks Michonne if she has a problem with the approach we are going to take. She gives him a look, like he didn't even have to ask, like she had already figured it all out in her head.

"No, Rick. I don't have a problem."

She hands off the bullet she had picked up off the floor to him before walking out.

Payton's words from yesterday come back to me:

"_Andrea would rather stay with people that possibly could have her back on a good day instead of friends that would take a bullet for her – Michonne took one for me."_

* * *

We walk as the path goes, shaping around us to create tall shadows that branch out from our feet. For once, I know how to reach the destination, the endpoint. There is resting smoke seeping from ash-coated carcasses; a burning of memories. "AWAY WITH YOU" is spray painted on a brick wall to my left, and I notice it in passing. I almost wish I could go away, but I can't, because I have to face this town.

I look at the change in the sidewalk when it happens: little yellow arrows line the asphalt. I can't wrap my head around the message because it is fighting with the last one I saw on the wall. To stay or to go. Those are the conflicts we deal with every new sunrise.

Rick leads us – well, Carl and Michonne around a corner because I already know my way – and then I recognize the surroundings as the center of town. The buildings are starting to fade from their polished, gleaming days when society was intact. What the three of us see due to what the world is now; however, is what makes us take a step back and draw our weapons. It's a precautionary action, and I try to hold the notched arrow in my bow with as little sway as possible from having bandaged hands while we come up on what made us hesitate moments before.

Spikes and planks and cages and wires and a pile up of cars stretch for as far as the eye can see. The scenario is complex and purposely crafted in a town that was once simple. Down under my feet where we have halted at the crosswalk is another message, this time in orange: "TURN AROUND AND LIVE". I take the words in, but looking around, there doesn't seem to be anyone ready to enforce the demand.

We move on.

"JUST LISTEN" greets me, swaying in the minor breeze with pink letters on a white sheet. And maybe we should do what the warnings say, but Rick has not faltered, and for what it is worth, I trust his judgment. _I trust him. _Wires and ropes line this potential playing field for war. Birds hop around in cages, mice cower back in theirs; spears explode from barrels and open trunks and windows of cars. Nothing happens.

"It looks like someone's already made this theirs." Michonne observes. She's behind Rick, Carl, and me, lagging a bit, being mindful to any little sound.

Rick ducks under a line of rope. "Doesn't mean they found what we're lookin' for."

I follow Carl under the rope to catch up with Rick, who is locked in leader mode. "But what if they see us?" I ask, eyeballing a spike jutting out from a car that is too close for comfort. "It doesn't look like they want anyone here."

"Then I'll _handle it." _replies Rick, assuring me. I swallow . . . guess we are going out on a limb here because there could be nothing on the other side of that bar. _But it's a chance. _A bad chance is better than none. Carl's shoulder lightly bumps mine and Rick is talking again, "Couple of the places are just up ahead. Let's get in," Rick sighs, tucking under a wire, "and get the hell outta here."

I turn my body to the side and bend under the wire; I have to balance my weight a couple different ways to make it all the way through with my bow and quiver, but I get on the other side of the obstacle, nonetheless. Rick points and talks and Carl and Michonne are looking, but my focus gets pulled elsewhere; besides, I do not want to know about where my dad spent his lonely nights. A sound grabs my eardrums and demands attention, so I end up stopping altogether. The sound is low and slight, yet recognizable. My head turns and there is a walker shuffling about. It's sideways, like its spine is no longer aligned right, folded into itself. The geek once was a woman with long brown hair and wearing a long blue dress. I shake off any feeling because Anna was put down and their eyes aren't the same because they change after you turn.

"She'll get caught." I hear from someone. I can feel Carl at my back or nearby, he's going to urge me to walk on soon.

But we all watch as the walker gets close-lined by the wire right at the waist. Cans jingle and BANG! the undead is now fully dead and I whip around to face the gunshot.

A dark figure is standing on the roof of one of the surrounding buildings. I can't see their face because a mask blocks all identification, but the person has a rifle.

_"Hands!" _they shout. It's a man. Rick and Carl rush forward and raise their hands, guns still in their grasps. Michonne stands her ground and is unmoving. I have had a gun at my head before, so hesitantly, I weakly raise my arms. My arrow maintains its position in the bow as I hold it, but slackens and points down some so I don't accidently shoot myself.

The man on the roof thrusts the end of his gun towards our four forms, which most likely look small from his point of view, and shouts: "Now you drop what you got, and you go! Your guns, your shoes, the bow, and that sword! All of it!"

Sorry, but, _that's not happening._

"Ten seconds!"

Only takes two to put a bolt through him.

I go to Rick because he said he would handle whoever we ran into – he kept his promise. He tells Carl and me to run for the car, he'll cover us. Michonne says we need that rifle, she thinks she can reach the roof to get it.

_"Seven!" _That's where we are with the countdown.

My eyes are on the stranger. I lean forward to take the pressure off of my heels and onto the balls of my feet instead. I'm antsy, but the man cannot know that. Swinging slowly back down on my heels, I wait for a sign from Rick. It's his call.

_"Six!"_

Then it is there, lowly: _"Carl, River, go – " _BOOM! BOOM! Gunfire from both parties sounds, Carl grabs me by the wrist, and we're off. We duck down behind vehicles and barrels while we scurry back the way we came. I let the boy with the Sheriff hat drag me for quite a bit of ground – I don't count – before I break out of the trance the shootout had had me in. I pull back; Carl yanks me into an alleyway tinted grey. I know my way back to the car, I know my way home, I know this town – he doesn't have to lead me around.

I end up getting my wrist back by jerking it towards me and away from the boy. I hate when people touch it because it makes me feel vulnerable or stuck, maybe that is why I froze up. Either way, I choked and this is stupid –

We stand a distance apart. The gunfire rages on other places besides here. "Why didn't you let go?!" I hiss. He looks hurt. Well, I am, too. My hands hurt from getting tugged and wacked with the bow. I'm tired.

"I had to make sure you followed – "

_"I'm right here, Carl."_

That is when the outside world quiets. I stop, listen, and then it is going again. The gunshots are closer this time and my hunter ears say that the man is heading down the sidewalk that collides with our alley. He's coming, shooting up the streets. I sloppily shove my bow over my head and stuff the arrow into the quiver. Sliding the pistol that doesn't see the light of day as much as my bow out from its holster, I flip the safety off with a thumb, hear it click. I filled it before we left. I nod to Carl, but I'm turned around before I can check for a response. Using my ears to time it just so, I reveal myself with my finger on the trigger. However, before anything can happen, Carl, my partner, jumps in front of me. He shoots the man in the chest and he falls, groaning. Michonne swings around the corner with her katana up, but there is nothing to hit because the danger is down on the tan sidewalk. Rick appears, too, and I back up, bowing my head as the gun dangles.

I thought I could do it. But I froze, again. Carl knew before it even happened –

The other three have already rushed over to the body, pointing their weapons at it even in death.

"You okay?" Rick asks me. He's breathing hard, the adrenaline is wearing off.

I straighten out, come closer. "Yeah."

"I told you two to run for the car," His words move to his son, "I didn't want you to have to do that."

_"I had to."_

It's over. Kneeling down, Rick bangs on the man's chest – he is wearing body armor. Carl's bullet just bruised him, he's alive. Michonne asks if we care.

That's when Rick rips off the mask on the man and a rush of memories floods into my head, into my blood.

It is Mr. Jones

* * *

Words come to me with ease when I know where to place them within a story to finish it. They feel more truthful, more real because they'll last longer than rambles tied to moments I'll forget five minutes later. I know Mr. Jones' story before the world decided it didn't want to be itself anymore – not that it ever was because it is always changing; things die, others grow. A cycle. So, point being, Morgan – Rick reminded me of his name because he know the man in a pastime, too – was someone I was familiar with when the earth still went through the old motions; it has broken of those now.

This is how the story ends.

With traps and alarms and warnings in bold ink and confusion on who the real enemy is. And, of course, Morgan: bruised and out cold in my hometown. We're back at the start.

I tell Rick how I recognized Morgan Jones because I said it out loud before I could stop it. There was curiosity as well because I had that _look _and he had the same; I let it spill, just a little bit.

Mr. Jones was a man I knew from an old, pretty church I used to go to on Sunday mornings, the hours I wore that blue puffy dress that remained in my closet even after the day I outgrew the dainty fabric. My mom _– Anna – _she – she was actually the one who interacted with him between the two of us because Dad never went to church while I stood in the back, but I think that was what kids were supposed to do. He was nice and smiled a lot, had a pretty wife and a boy older than me who I cannot remember the name of. He was in Payton's grade, but I would have never known because they were two grades ahead of me. The difference was originally meant to be one but I was held back my first year of school because the school didn't think I was ready to be passed on. That led to many heated discussions between my parents and the faculty, but, in the end, the school won, like most things. So, I spent another year in Kindergarten going over the same lesson plan and being forced to receive extra help I didn't want nor think I needed. Most of it was a blur, but coming to school and seeing all of the kids I should have been with helped me remember.

The last time I saw Morgan Jones was in the summer of 2007, the last summer with _Mom._ Dad was at work that day and Mom had off; I was sitting in my dad's rocking chair because he didn't mind all that much when I did, watching cartoons, when there was a knock at the door. I remember bounding over to answer it because I thought it could be one of the kids from the trailer park, but instead I was greeted with the smiling faces of the Jones', minus their son. We had stopped going to church altogether a month prior and I hadn't of asked why, I just knew I didn't have to get up early on Sunday anymore. I didn't know what to say to them, so nine-year-old me didn't, and then Mom was shooing me away from eyes. They talked for a while, I did not have the hunter ears back then to listen, and afterwards my mom had come back to set a casserole down on the kitchen table I was sitting at and swinging my legs.

_"Why did they do that? Give us the casserole?"_

_"Because, honey, that's what nice people do."_

_"Well, we're nice people . . . how come we aren't making anyone casseroles?"_

_"Some people don't know how."_

I had froze when confronted with Morgan then, just as I did running out of the alley, gun up.

And I still never learned how to make a casserole.

We end up bringing Morgan back up to his hideout because Rick doesn't want to leave him out in the open and vulnerable in town hall. I knew things were different with him when he started shooting at us, but it is not until I see the traps – not walker traps but human traps – that I really _understand. _First, there is the pit of spikes under the _Welcome _mat that Rick nearly falls into, only to be saved by Michonne. Then, there is a trip wire on the stairs that is so clear I have to strain my eyes to see where to step over. And last, well, beyond a white curtain at the top of the staircase perches a bloody axe with chains, waiting for its next victim. "I TOLD YOU" is the label on the side, not like anyone would see it.

He's not the same.

Morgan's room is like any other: four walls, a roof; however, instead of the walls being structure, they only express his solitude. It's like a chalkboard at school, which makes my stomach muscles tighten at the thought because I hated the noise of it, the feel of chalk. It's as if I could taste it but I had more sense to never have. What are on the dull walls are rambles of incomplete thoughts and words. I guess this is how he kept his mind ticking.

But the word I see the most, the only part of the walls that is bolder than the rest because it is spray-paint instead of chalk: "CLEAR". Clear from what? Yourself? The past?

I came back here for a reason.

Whether I have figured it out yet or not.

Through an archway and a set of white double doors, we stop. Rick and Michonne are hunched from dragging Morgan's limp body, their backs to me; Carl is at my side. There's guns. Way more guns than I have seen in a long time, in . . . well, _ever. _The moment moves on from being paused, but I'm still trying figure out how it's possible for there to be that many different kinds of high-powered rifles and shotguns. I've only seen the basic ones we have at the prison, the ones that are normal to see with a permit.

"I showed him that weapons locker last year," Rick says out in a breath, recovering from lugging Morgan's body weight up a staircase.

Michonne is steadying herself as well, "And it had all of this in it?"

"Not even half . . ." I don't even think that there were enough people in town to own all of these guns. "He's been busy – _the cot – " _Rick and Michonne hustle Morgan over to a low cot in the back corner. Morgan's feet slide against the hardwood as they move and with gritted teeth and harsh breaths of air, the man is in his bed.

Our next move is unspoken because the four of us already know. Morgan doesn't need all of these guns and seems like this is our best bet, the good option, and we aren't dealt decent cards a lot, so it is a chance best taken. Slowly, I get down on my knees and remove my bow from its place on my back, set it on the floor beside the legs that are tucked under me. I have to tread lightly because if I don't, that stabbing pain might come back; nonetheless, today has been a good day so far for the healing process.

Michonne rips a black duffel bag from a shelf and starts shoving whatever is nearby into it: guns, ammo – Carl kneels down beside me and hands over my own duffel bag. There's a crate full to the brim with boxes of bullets between us and we begin picking through. I am unsure what most of the different labels on the boxes mean, but I pack them regardless. When we get home, the adults will know what to do and what goes where, they always do.

Somewhere along the line, Carl's fingers brush against mine. I feel it because my fingers are the one part of my two hands that are not blanketed in white protection and I glance over at the boy. Under the rim of his Sheriff's hat – which I guess in another world where we could play as kids might be used as a cowboy hat or anything else the mind dreamt up – he smiles, teeth and all. I grin back. We're going to be okay. We're going to be able to defend ourselves against the Governor's army.

_"No."_

What? No? Why _no?_

My head turns and attention goes to Rick, who is in the back with Morgan. One look is all it takes for me to understand the meaning of _no. _Turns out, _clear_ isn't the only message decorating the wall in loud coloring.

"DUANE TURNED". That is what is on the wall where Rick is.

And I get it.

Duane was a child. Like Sophia, Eliza, and Louis were. And like Carl, Payton, and I are. Judith, too.

When you lose one like that, it's different. Because they make so much sense, Sophia did, and without that, without them – it's enough to make you lose your mind.

"We're gonna wait for him to wake up," Rick declares. "Make sure he's okay."

"He tried to kill us." counters Michonne. And yeah, she's right, but he also could have shot me in that one, tiny window of time there was before Carl stepped in. But he didn't. I know what's it like to be threatened, to be kidnapped, to . . . _tried to be killed . . ._

That wasn't it.

"He told us to go. He didn't know who we were."

I get to my feet to be like every awake person in the room. It takes support from a cabinet and a little extra boost of energy, but I get it alright. I'm standing. My hand reaches for the wood of my bow.

I listen to Michonne as my brain thinks and hands work to pick up a piece of who I am – the bow –

"He tried to kill us and we didn't leave him for the walkers. He's had a good day." He did, I guess, but he got shot. And what happens when he does wake up and all of this stuff is gone? What then? What if he tracks us like the Governor, takes until there's nothing. We can't have that. _I can't. _"He doesn't need half of these guns. _We do."_

_We._

She said we.

Rick gives the final order, "We're waiting for him to wake up. That's it."

But Michonne's not done.

"Have you taken a look around this place? The axe? The spikes? _The walls?" _Those were messages and warnings to shake off any visitors. The walls are what Morgan knows and what makes sense to him. This morning when I woke up and forgot, I had to have my own replay of events, my own writing on the wall. You can lose it and push everyone away, but even killers need to be aware or else they would be dead.

But, still, we don't set traps for people, just have a watch tower, and none of us have gone off of the deep end without returning yet.

_"You think he's crazy?" _Rick questions Michonne and it is almost as if he is scolding her by the tone of voice he uses.

"No," answers Michonne, truthfully. "I think he's dangerous."

"I know him."

So did I, to an extent.

"He wasn't like this then."

None of us were either.

A pause. Some thinking.

"We're gonna wait for him to wake up."

That's final. That's what Rick says, so I follow. He has kept me alive this long for me not to. I stroll into the back room because on the wall writing about things I don't understand because they're not my memories cease to exist. Carl comes along for my journey and I do not actually see him, but I can hear his footfalls and feel his presence nearby like it tends to be these days. Then, he is standing beside me and we're craning our heads up to pick through the drawing, trying to make sense of it all.

Rick's attention must have followed, too, because his voice carries to my ears from the next room over, most likely seeing us through the open, French doors connecting the two. "What do you see?"

"It's a map." I inform him, still examining the sketch from my angle. Carl claims it is the neighborhood, my neighborhood, King County . . . And only when I begin following streets with familiar sounding names and passing places with my eyes I know I have been to before do I find it to be true.

Because where else would there be a square of a house marked in all capital letters "ANNA'S HOUSE" that just so happens to be next to another shape labeled as a trailer park. Where else? Nowhere, that's what, because this is it. This is everything.

I'm home.

Carl tells his dad that their house is gone. When I look over, I see a house on the other side of town from mine called "RICK'S HOUSE" in red. Then it is "TAKEN", and then it is "BURNT OUT" and crossed out of the map entirely.

It hits me that the two of the people I care about the most lived blocks and a town hall over from me when society was okay. But maybe that is how it was supposed to be: Rick and Carl living in a nicer part of King County and me in a more run-down spot, but happy as it was. There is no use for money anymore, no government, no classes – like their house, the world burned all of that away. We are all on the same level now.

My right hand falls upon my house and despite how much I hate the feel of chalk beneath my fingertips, it isn't as bad when you know you're not alone and on the other side of the drawing might be the source of your happiness when you younger.

"Is that why you wanted to come?" Rick asks his son. "See the house?" I look down; close my eyes for a second. _"Carl – "_

"I – I just wanted to come . . ."

My hand falls and eyes open back up. _Me too._

An unmistakable crunching sound is the source of the movement of my body while I rotate. There Michonne sits on a crate with an open potato chip bag, chewing loudly, and the sound easily bounces off of the walls of this small room.

Rick bows his head before pivoting his eyes in her direction. "We're eatin' his food now?" He seems slightly annoyed at this point.

Yet Michonne merely shrugs off any indifference, popping another chip in her mouth. "The mat said '_welcome'."_

I snicker more so through my nose than any other part of me, and a few, pinched gusts of air make their way out before I can suppress them. Afterwards, I'm turning in circles, regaining composure because no one else laughed despite how she was right. The absence of Carl doesn't register within me until he's walking up to his dad, saying,

"I'm going on a run."

And by that, does he mean him, or us? He never ran anything by me. Not that the boy has to . . . it's just – I thought –

It is my town, too.

By now, Rick has moved on from our last discussion and is busying himself with another task. He is crouched, reaching for something to grab, when he looks up at his son, "Where?"

Carl rocks his body, maybe out of nervousness, but I am not sure. I don't know the plan; I don't know anything to say to back him up here. "I thought . . . maybe the one thing people didn't loot was cribs." He rushes to support himself because I'm not there, even though I said I was when we were in the alley. I mean – I still am and I was then. This – this is _different. _I do not think he wants me to be. "And there's that baby place that Mom's friend, Sara, ran. It's just around the corner."

_"Carl – "_

_"Dad, it's just around the corner."_

Carl is bringing up the walker traps when I'm coming forward to his aid, moving my eyes back-and-forth between the three of them. "I can go with 'im."

There is a look from Carl to me, but I am still deciding on whether or not it is good or bad when Rick sighs. "River, I don't know . . ."

"I mean, we – we've done it before."

Runs. We have gone on runs with just the two of us. Those were not exactly on the best of terms, though.

"You're gonna need some help carryin' the box." states Michonne through her munching. Now closer to her, I can smell the salt from the chips. And I am hungry, yeah, yet I do not want to eat any.

"What?" says Carl.

"If you're gonna get a crib, you have to get the box. It's big . . . and heavy. You're gonna need help carrying the box."

I am half tempted to say that I can help him, but I know the answer already due to the healing state I am in. So no words leave my mouth and instead I opt for grabbing at the fraying string on my bow.

"You are gettin' a crib, right?" Michonne tries to confirm Carl's intentions.

He bobs his head. "That's what I said."

Michonne says back to Rick, "Then I'll go with them."

Rick stands. "Right there, that's the deal." The blue of his eyes both stare down Carl and mine for a second, then he agrees to it all, and his eyes go back to normal, which are still pretty stressed, but better. "You get into trouble, you holler, okay? I'll hear it from here."

My legs prepare to fall into their rhythmic motions of walking, but Rick stops me before I can get too far. The other two head off down the stairs and into the fresh air and sunshine, while I remain confined under our leader's stare. I know what he wants to talk about, but I am unsure if it is the right time . . . if there ever was one.

"They can wait." Rick reassures me. "Besides, _he'll _notice when you're not there."

There's this weighted silence, and he is looking over at a sleeping Morgan in the cot when he asks, "You knew that girl before . . . do – do you think that you can trust her?"

"I don't know." His head rotates slowly back to me. I shrug. "Sometimes, I think I can and other times I'm not so sure, but it isn't because of anything she's doin' . . . What she said, _what Payton said_ – she was right because we never really did know each other."

"I didn't know you in Atlanta."

"Guess you just gotta judge and hope it works out." We all can hope. The topic in my head is changing. "I grew up here, Rick, so did she. From what I'm getting, Carl and you did, too."

I notice some of the features on his face drop and he puts a hand on his holster like Rick does when he has this wave of paranoia that something might happen pass through him. It's not towards me. _I know. "Yeah . . . we did. _It was quiet; I wanted to be somewhere quiet, and slow."

"Things were different then. And I know I have said it before, but I'll say it again just – . . . just _thank you, Rick._ For Atlanta. For the tank. For the chance. Because, being back here, it made me realize that I didn't want to die as the old me."

Rick knows and I know that we still wear the same faces we had a year ago and inhabit the same bodies. But the ribs threatening to poke out at me and the times my hands refuse to stop shaking say otherwise; how there are now more lines in Rick's face and his eyes are red and fighting to stay open. I remain a kid and he remains a Sheriff; however, there is something more to us now, something bigger.

Maybe that's the reason I have stuck around.


	23. Chapter 22: Clear

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 22: Clear

_I didn't want to die as the old me._

Those were the words I said to Rick, words I am not positive I know the true meaning of. Because, who even is the old me? The new me?

_I didn't want to die as the old me._

Nine words. Nine words rack my brain while I thud down the wooden steps leading from Morgan's hideout, careful to avoid any traps on the way out. I don't know who I am – my identity – and that _scares me. _Right now – well, _right now_ I'm just living, just getting by. And maybe I can't be the new me because there is a storm coming and I can feel it, can smell the rain in the air.

_I didn't want to die as the old me._

Because I am still trying to get the old me to emerge from the depths of the abyss it fell into after the farm, when in reality I should just let it drown because I lost grip of it long ago.

_I didn't want to die as the old me._

I came here to let go of what I have been holding onto for so long. I came here to _clear _myself of this – this burden of the past.

_I didn't want to die as the old me._

I will clear.

The spring air that has recently been showing itself with the season change and everything invades my senses when I stumble outside. I regain my footing, and a piece of mind, allowing the persistent voice inside my head to trail off. I raise my head and look around. Two hungry biters are thrashing around in one of the traps, spikes jutting out from their backs. Down the hard sidewalk stand two individuals I would have never come to know in my other life; they're waiting for me, the smaller one with the hat notices my arrival first. This place, the surrounding area – it's still Georgia. Society may have completely done a one-eighty, but Georgia? Georgia never changed. Like the tall trees that have not fallen, my love for this state has never wavered. It is not Georgia's fault there is a Governor storm on the horizon, not its fault that when it rains it pours.

The only thing Georgia can be is alive, and it is; maybe more so in the present than ever before.

I approach the two figures on the sidewalk.

Carl asks, squinting in the sun, "Everything okay?"

I answer in one of our nods. "I think so."

He nods back . . . and we walk. Carl leads and I follow along, I can feel Michonne lagging a little bit behind me. We're weaving in and out of potential traps like we did when we got here. The walkers stuck in the spikes are loud as they claw at the caged rats they were originally after. They can't get to us so it's not as bad, I guess. My thoughts snap back to Michonne and she is in the back of my mind, currently walking behind my body, and I come to terms with that I don't understand the katana wielding woman, not quite yet. I get that she helped us out back at Woodbury because of Payton and she stayed at the prison because of Payton, too, but how come Payton talks about her like Michonne is shut down? Why stay together if they barely communicate? Oh, yeah, because Payton said they were with each other to just _be_, and I told Daryl I wanted that, too, but with the prison there is supposed to include more than _being._

Rick made Michonne come today but she didn't have to tag along with Carl and I's run. But she did, and she's alone without Payton, and maybe I've felt Michonne's way before when Rick found his family at the quarry and it was just me, only me, and I had wished my dad was with me. I wished I had Payton or _Mom_, only when I finally got her she wasn't Mom anymore.

So maybe I do understand a little, but only a little.

"You don't have to come with us," Carl speaks to whatever lies ahead when his words are actually for Michonne. "We can handle it."

Carl's right, she doesn't have to be here, this isn't her fight, but she is.

"Told your dad I'd help you,"

Carl huffs. "Yeah, okay . . ."

A single walker stumbles into my view. It has not been caught by the traps and I take notice that it is shirtless. Old bite marks cover its arms and there is blood on its abdomen, the skin left there stretches over the walker's ribs, I can count every one. It used to be a man. The walker is wearing baggy, grey sweatpants that it trips over while throwing its body our way. He must have been taken down in his sleep or something because it is clearly not an everyday outfit.

Carl points and says something about taking care of the geek. Michonne hums in what I assume is in agreement and I hear the _CHING_ and see the silver gleam of her katana when she unsheathes it. The walker reaches out to her as they both draw closer to one another, it starts snarling, clamping its jaw. It is hungry – they all are hungry – but this one is in the starvation phase, if that can even kill them. It probably just weakens them.

The walker catches on one of the wires and a bunch of cans that are hanging off of the wire start banging into one another from the new weight. It will be all said and done in a few seconds. But it never gets to that point for me because my legs are sort of moving and there is pressure on my arm. My body is pulling away, but not by me – Carl – Carl – has my arm, not touching my wrist this time, and he's guiding me around the side of the building.

The sidewalk turns into a dirt slope downwards and I dig the tips of my boots into them. A scratchy noise begins from the friction of rubber soles against rough terrain. Carl stops, whips around; I push him away to get my right arm back. I see it in him with the way the Sheriff hat sits on his head and the shade of blue his eyes have gone. I know what version of Carl this is and I hate it.

"Aren't you coming?" he snaps, annoyed that I stopped, that I pulled away.

This isn't the gentle Carl, my partner, Carl, who I can talk to about anything because he accepts it. The Carl now is the Carl I get when something bad happens, or he's scared, or he is trying to be someone he is not; but mostly the last one.

But unlike Michonne, I _understand _Carl, all sides of him, because I am the same way.

"Carl – " I begin, but stop because Michonne dashes around the corner, grabbing us.

_"The hell was that?" _The words are mean but she's not, her tone is still low and soft. It confuses me even more.

"I want to do this on my own." Carl claims. He shifts his head my way. "Or with her."

The version of Carl I am not so fond of, the not-Carl – he walks off. This time; though, I stay put and face Michonne. She uses her katana to gesture to the building across the street.

"You just passed the baby place!" she calls after not-Carl's retreating form. I examine the sign labeling the brick building Michonne is talking about. I see flowers and rainbows decorating it and know right away that she is correct.

I hear a sigh from behind me. "I'm getting Judith something else first, okay?"

Just from his voice I know my partner Carl is back. I'm glad he came through.

Turning away from Michonne, I follow the boy as we head to a place only he knows.

I think maybe I'd follow him most places as long as he is the Carl that is actually him, not pretending to be something greater.

* * *

We end up at a place I know well because it is the main café in King County. The location of it is a bit out-of-the-way from the civilization of town, but I remember it still being busy, nonetheless. We are close to the backstretch of King County, which means we are nearing my small neighborhood that flowed into the trailer park. We may be close, but I don't know if I am going to take myself down that road, if I can bear it.

Because as much as I want closure, and as much as I wanted to come here because it was _home_ – some things are better left off as a memory in a better place.

My bow is out and I'm holding it to the best of my ability until these stupid hands heal so the bandages can be gone. I haven't gotten to shoot it much since the injury because going through the motions to use the weapon only opens up aging wounds. I should probably switch to a gun and trade arrows for bullets, but my bow is practically glued to my side, like it is a part of me or something. No one says anything when I sling it over my shoulder to head out or load an arrow with unusually shaky hands, but they know as well as I do that it is a straining task to use it now. Maybe they're trying to protect me by choosing silence, but the string on my bow is fraying and I can feel my grip slipping.

Stepping up onto the porch of the café, the outdoor sitting area there is completely destroyed, like most things in the world now. Pieces of trash and leaves surround my feet, light, metal chairs overturned and thrown everywhere. The tables remain intact but the once red umbrellas spilling out from the middle of them are now bleached an ugly pink and some are crooked. I think I have only been here a few times and ordered a hot chocolate or something because I was never coffee's biggest fan and whoever I was with claimed I was too young to be drinking it. Hot chocolate was just as good and thinking about it makes me miss it because even though Georgia is down in the deep South, it still gets cold here.

The boards under my boots squeak and groan in an exhausted way under me. I keep going with Carl and Michonne to the front double doors, but I do hope the rotted beams won't bust under my feet, even though it wouldn't be a long drop. Carl is at one of the two front doors and he cups his sleeve in the palm of his hand to wipe at the dust particles and grime caked on the glass. Once when he's got a little circle cleared he pushes the brim of his hat up with a finger, peers through the opening.

I cannot see what Carl is because I'm a ways off and using my hunter ears to search for any danger. What he is looking at; though, can also not be too threatening because his hand reaches for the doorknob. Michonne shuts his mission down – and quickly, too – because she snatches his limb from the knob. Turns out, she had her own eyes in on the inside of the café because I notice a clearing on the door she was standing at. Carl yanks his body harshly away from her much like I did with him when he grabbed at me unexpectantly; I'm getting better with the whole touch thing, but I'm still healing, my hands are, too. But they're better than before.

Carl dashes past me and hops off of the porch. Michonne is close and I shoot a _look _her way, I feel my face moving. I am kind of pissed, but not too pissed. I understand that we can't just bust down the door of the place, but in this group we explain why; if not with words than with facial expressions or signals. _Just something has to be there. _But she had nothing.

I jog to my friend's moving figure as he is going away. I tap his arm, fingers falling back after contact. He stops. "Carl, _hey –_ we can find another way in."

"This is important . . ." he mumbles, head bowed.

"I know."

He twists around, facing me now. "No, you don't – "

I step forward and cut him off. _"Don't you dare!" _I lived here, too; I'm feeling it, too. I lower my voice and dip my head in. "I get it; _I know . . . _I'm with you, Carl." I start shaking my head, breath wavering, "Don't say that, _please, _just – just don't."

Because I know.

More than he does.

Carl's eyes are soft when I back away. He reaches out to me.

"You think I was gonna let you go in there?"

That is not his voice. That is not my voice. Michonne is strolling up to us. _It was her._

Carl sighs, shoulders getting heavy. His eyes narrow. "I just think it's none of your business." Michonne halts. "You don't know me, you don't know her, and you don't know my dad! Or any – "

"I came out here to help." Michonne stops him. She comes closer.

I don't know why she wants to help us. She can go.

"You came out here for _common interests. _We have the same enemy and the same problem, and that's why you're here! _That's it!"_

My hand nudges Carl's and he dials it down. Rick told us the whole _common interests_ thing when we were getting the car out of the mud. He was right – Michonne being with us now is just that – and I wish he were here. Because Rick talks and Michonne is quie, and he keeps his promises and Michonne, well, I don't know her. I know I can take care of myself but Rick helps me out in believing we will make it through something.

But he's not here.

Carl lets Michonne know about the importance of it all and how she can't stop him, can't stop us.

Michonne grabs our attention just when she starts to lose us. _"Psst!" _We pivot her way. "I can't stop you. But you can't stop me from helping you."

* * *

I want to feel bad about it, but I can't. I cannot allow myself to because the job needs to get done and sometimes it isn't fun, if this world is even fun at all. Michonne opens one of the café's doors; she reaches around the wood of it to grab the bell hanging from the knob on the other side so it will not ring. I look ahead of me when I give what is in my grasp a push and a skateboard with a caged rat sitting on top rolls into the unknown. Carl shoves another and it is swallowed by the café's darkness.

I'm sorry, if I even should be.

The rats begin squeaking and there is movement, growling. All of the sleeping bodies sitting in chairs or spread out on the floor come alive and rise. About a dozen of walkers drag themselves to the rodents and we make our move. The three of us slip inside unnoticed with the commotion we caused, and Carl ushers Michonne and I along a wall and back around the counter.

This café is not your average spotless, modern model because it is old and rustic; the floors are wood and dust creeps in the corners. It reeks of King County, drips of Georgia's blood, and I love it. It is everything I love about this state because it is simple and pretty and endless.

That could be why I have never left.

I love this café even though I will never be back because I'll only breathe these same breaths once and it can only be today for twenty-four hours. I will never be thirteen again, searching for a light in King County's café with healing hands, a friend, someone who is trying to help, and the distracted undead. And somehow these thoughts are okay to me because perhaps I only want to live this moment one time, or maybe I do not. But I do know King County can get boring after many sunrises because the sights are the same, so possibly just visiting enhances the colors when the sun comes up to say hello.

We scope out the area before advancing – nothing's changed – and then we round the bar. The bar is not much of a bar because this is a café, but sometimes I think they served some kind of mixed drinks. Michonne stands guard with her katana readied while Carl turns a dusty stool that is attached to the bar around. It doesn't squeak from not being touched in about a year – which is good – and I observe my partner step up on the cushion seat, for I am unaware of his exact intentions. He almost falls back on wobbling legs, but I grab his hand to anchor him. Carl pauses, lightens his touch like he is afraid of putting pressure on my bandaged hand. I can't feel the pain as much anymore, he knows, but his hand still goes away. I guess he is thinking about how every single time he has touched me I have yanked away roughly. That was different.

Back to Carl – he uses the bar's surface to give himself a boost to what is hanging above. Picture frames filled with happy faces and bright smiles line the bar, families and friends and overall content is displayed in the photographs. No one knew even had an inkling to the fall of our perfect little society because we were all caught up in our lives, I'm guilty of it.

None of this just seemed . . . possible.

Carl carefully slides one of the pictures off of its hook. When he lowers his body down some and I'm eye level with it, I almost have to look away in fear of getting hit with a wave of emotion I don't want.

It is a photo of Rick, Carl, and Lori. All younger, all cleaner, all brighter, all _alive – _Carl needs that piece of the past, I lost my family beach one back at the farm.

_Something has Carl. _I stiffen. A hand, a hand is on his leg. My bow – I need an arrow –

Before I can even reach for an arrow, a blade is sticking out of the geek's head and the danger is gone. Michonne is on the other end and she was one who silenced it, who ended it. Her fingers on one hand dig into what is left of the walker's hair while the other slowly slithers the katana back to dislodge the blade. Blood squirts out, the walker goes slack against the counter.

I feel helpless.

We head back the way we came. When we're back at the wall that blocks us from undead eyes, a rat crawls around the corner, heading straight for us. It is squeaking and we are looking and none of this seems to make a lick of sense until I notice the walkers following the rodent because it was the distraction in the first place.

We _move. _Michonne spins Carl and me around so we are in front of her, and the three of us book it back to "behind-the-scenes" of the café. I hear a crash and see Michonne yanking a shelf down to block the biters' path. There is a squeak, but not an innocent one of a rat – the flimsy kitchen door swings open, walkers pouring out from it. Carl shoots the first one and my ears scream. The second one in line – it was a man – comes at me. I have an arrow set and ready for him, but when I go to release, there is nothing. It takes a second to realize the problem because like a gun with an empty chamber you never want to hear that awful clicking sound unless the bullet is for you. But my bow does not click, my bow does not talk. The string can get tired; though, and it can break like all beings do after a while.

And my bow's frayed string finally gave way.

It snaps and I think it is supposed to hit me and hurt, but that pain I am searching for never comes. The walker is on me by then and I push it back, but it is much bigger than me. I still have the arrow in my fist and take what little strength I do have left in me to hop up and plunge the tip of my arrow right through one of the walker's eye sockets. There is blood – always blood – and the walker falls, I fall, and then I'm struggling to stand once more because oxygen decides it does not want to be friends; it is understandable but now is not the time.

I cannot get the arrow back because it is stuck, so instead I just snatch up my bow – the broken part of me – and keep on going with the others. I feel like I am lost in my own head again and I am no longer part of the action. Gunshots, overturned tables, the gleam of a sword stained with blood – the rest of the journey to the front door are Carl and Michonne. The escaped rat scrambles over to my feet when we reach our destination and I do not think much of it when I scoop it up. It could have numbers of diseases but there is a virus inside me that brings me back to life when I am dead, so I think I win that battle.

Carl screams something, I'm shoved outside into the bright light and fresh air; a door slams.

Man, what a time to be alive.

Michonne presses her body up against the front doors and holds the knob tight; all of the walkers are clawing at us with grimy fingers from the other side of the glass. She gives me a weird look when she sees that I am cradling a destroyed bow in one hand and a maybe-sick rat in the other.

"If it made it out of that cage," I say, "then it deserves at least a chance."

Walking over to the side of the café's porch, I lower the hand holding the rat to the grass and it scampers off among the blades of green.

Something about it just makes me feel important again.

When I come back into the world Carl is panicking: "I've got to go back in!"

"Where is it?" Michonne asks.

Realization settles in. The picture frame – it – it's not with Carl, must be somewhere else. Back inside – _goddammit._

Carl is closing in on Michonne even though she is practically a stranger and we do not get close to them. "We have to go back in, we have to . . . _I have to!" _His voice is full of desperation, and I can tell he is hurting because he misses Lori, and all of the sudden I miss everyone, and I feel like shit for slipping into the shadows when Carl has his own demons to fight. _"It's the only one left!"_

It goes quiet. I think about Rick and how he might have heard us, but we are far and his hearing only stretches out to a certain length. Minus the walkers thrashing against the glass, this moment might even seem like a peaceful atmosphere. But it's not because I am in a ghost town and the Carl I know just wants one picture of the past, one thing to keep him going.

Carl tries for the door but Michonne makes sure he does not get far. Internally I am reaching for him but externally, the part that really counts because he sees it, I am still in place.

Michonne speaks lowly yet collected while blocking Carl from the doors, "I don't know you, don't know her – _I get that." _Her face gets serious and we do not have to listen to her, but I might. "But can you do something for me? _Wait. Here."_

Carl attempts to reason with her or protest, but Michonne shuts his whole operation down. No more bullshit.

"You wait here with your friend. That's how we get it done."

Grudgingly, Carl finds some acceptance with the situation and falls back against the front doors. Michonne disappears off around the corner and I yank one of the metal – and rusting – chairs out from under a table parallel to the boy, it screeches against the wood. I plop down into the seat and finally take the time to get a good look at the damage on my bow. The once strong sting is separated from one side; used-to-be sturdy wood is cracked. I sigh for I cannot scream.

"Your bow – " Carl observes, his voice carrying over to me.

"Pretty much wasted," I reply while also finishing his thought. I drop it to the ground and it slides, let it sit. Carl asks about replacing the string and framework, I shrug. "It just holds me back, anyway." I raise my hand to my mouth because the only thing poking out from the bandages are little nubs of fingers. _No. Bad habit. _I swat my hand away.

"That's not true," my partner informs me, "you're good with it."

I show him the state of my hands. "Not anymore . . ."

"That's temporary."

"Everything is."

Silence. "Please, don't say that. You know how important this is."

I look to him, swallowing, squinting, fidgeting where I sit – "I lived here, too, Carl. And you may not know that – well, you probably don't – but I lived down by the trailer park and we didn't have much, and it kind of sucked, but it was still living." I pull my lips in, he is watching. "You probably would have never known me either because I got held back in school for not being good enough, not making the cut . . . I know how important all of this is because I lost my picture and if I were you I would be searching through that café, too."

He doesn't say anything back, just taking it all in. But that is the thing about us, we don't have to. He nods. I nod back.

_Okay._

Michonne comes back, holding out a familiar picture frame. Carl takes it and a grin pops up and spreads across his lips, despite his effort to hide it. "I just – I – I just thought Judith should . . . should know what her mom looked like. _Thank you."_

I stand, grab my bow, I guess. I raise my lips at Carl because he deserves a smile, even though it does not involve any teeth. He ducks his head, smiling, too. All of this is so important, more than words can care to express.

Michonne flicks some of her hair away from her eyes. "I was gonna go back in anyway," She pulls something out from behind her back. Wait – what the hell is _that? _It looks like one of those Halloween cats with the over-exaggerated arched back, only this one is decorated in many colors. Michonne admires it, "I just couldn't leave this behind. It's too damn gorgeous."

Yeah, Michonne . . . I think I might be starting to understand you.

* * *

I almost forget why we left the walls of messages in Morgan's lair, but I am eased into remembering when we near the building. We enter the baby place; clear it out – no walkers in sight. It is probably a good thing, too; this place is too pure.

We get a crib, but it is one on display so there is no need for a box; it is already put together. I try to grab the other end of the crib to help Carl with the load, but Michonne swoops in and lifts it instead, takes my job. I cannot be too bitter about it; though, because she is just trying to help like she has been doing this whole time.

Lowering the picture frame, Michonne's "too-damn-gorgeous" cat, and my bow that finally snapped into the base of the crib – the three of us set to go back. I walk with them, sometimes ahead and other times behind, whatever I am feeling. With just a quiver stuffed with arrows curled around my chest and back I feel out of place. Or maybe that's just me.

Rick eagerly greets us when I am twisting my body around simple-yet-effective traps once more. He says he was just about to begin looking for the three of us; however, I think his promising words are directed more at Carl and me.

"Sorry, we got caught up." I explain since I am not holding anything. I could cover it up and tell him something like how we had to build the crib because it would not fit into our car otherwise, but I am finding it hard to lie; don't want to.

"It's alright . . . You're here now."

Sometimes, I wish my dad had been more like Rick Grimes, I hope his ghost is taking notes.

I notice then that Rick is holding his left arm weird across his chest and I look up and see a bloodstain on his shirt near his shoulder blade. I guess I am staring too hard or paused in motion because Rick informs me that it is nothing, doesn't seem that way, though. I take one of the duffel bags stuffed with weaponry he has because I need something to do, something to carry. He thanks me.

Further down the maze of endless traps, Morgan appears in sight as he ties down two bodies to a gurney like it is the most normal thing, and it might be for all I know.

Michonne comments, "He's okay . . ."

"No, he's not." warns Rick.

It feels like someone blew a gust of cold air into my systems because my skin twitches. Something happened between Rick and Morgan after we left, I know it. The blood, how sure Rick's voice sounds, the eerie quiet –

"Hey!"

"Carl – "

_"Morgan."_

Morgan stops, straightens his back; we have stopped, too.

Carl has his attention. "I had to shoot you. You know I had to, right?" Morgan bobs his head in acknowledgement. "I'm sorry."

We are supposed to leave then but Morgan comes to us. "Hey, son . . . Don't ever be sorry." There is an instant where we are processing Morgan's words. No, it is okay to feel sorry sometimes because then you are alive and not just numb inside.

Morgan squints at me. "Hey, I – I know you, I've seen you before. _I know you."_

"Yeah . . . from church. I'm Anna's kid." I confirm.

"Yeah, yeah – do you still – do you still believe in all that praying and preachin'?"

I consider it. "I don't know what I believe anymore."

"Hmm. Figured with the dead rising almost anything is worth believing in,"

"Do you?" I question.

That gets me a laugh from him. _"No._ I have no reason to, I just need to clear."

I walk away, all of us do.

I leave home without needing to see it because the new me is entirely just me and home is now elsewhere.


	24. Chapter 23: Can't Beat Them, Join Them

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 23: Can't Beat Them, Join Them

Sometimes, when you're cruising on the Interstate and passing by cars, you forget that the people inside all have individual lives. They are probably on that asphalt for a different reason, going a different speed in a different car; all fearing unique matters from the day's anxiety.

Anyone from older times who claimed that the world was small either liked understatements because it made them feel bigger, or they were simply an awful liar. Before the outbreak, seven billion people walked the Earth, and most of them still do. The only difference now is that they are all the same; all walk and are driven by one motive. From a distance, they still look human, still look okay, but so do many variables; bad things are uglier up close.

Walkers can be deceiving, like photographs. Pictures show a single moment in the vast amount that there are, walkers are a version of someone who had many angles and sides to them. They are not finished products, they are parts, and so am I; a contender in my own game of life.

Today, claiming the world is small is justified. Everything is more condensed because the outside world is dangerous, and you do not look around at a place for the first and last time, do not see a face for the first and last time. It is impossible to run when we are all trying to find a place to stay.

So it doesn't surprise me when we slow up to Orange Backpack Man on our way back from King County, and he is splattered and laid out like roadkill on the side of the highway. Actually, it is a lot like that; human souls turn into animals because we live in nature instead of around it like it used to be.

Rick is not driving so he has Michonne stop the car, he tells Carl to go get the orange backpack; it is not attached to its host anymore. The boy shoves his way out of the idling car, but I don't miss the look on his face suggesting he'd rather not. Rick is saying that we need the supplies, yet sitting in the back of a car with a trunk stuffed with weapons does not make me feel more positive about my partner robbing the dead. We do it all the time, but we saw the guy _before . . ._

Carl is back, it has been about thirty seconds. He hurls the bag inside and it bumps into me; I push it further away. It carries that all too familiar metallic stench to it and is cold to the touch in spite of resting in the blistering sun. Carl reclaims his seat, and the backpack sits between us when Michonne nudges the Hyundai forward.

I roll down my window and stick my head out so I can forget about the smell.

* * *

We arrive at the prison, my official new home at best. Nothing's changed, it is still recovering from the Governor's ambush days ago; I'm sure there will be another one soon. It might not even be another ambush, but another _something._

The others are acting a weird, happy-shocked way towards what we came home packing. I guess that's good, we are prepared now at least – somewhat. I hand off the crossbow I picked up on the way out to Daryl when he is near enough to touch; Morgan most likely did not even know how to use the damned thing. I think he wants to talk about it, but I only say that the other guy preferred bullets, turning to work on pulling my broken bow from the bottom of the trunk's "weapon locker". I yank it out roughly because it is already tarnished, and in the process it tips over my quiver, a few arrows spilling out. I end up slamming it all back into place even though a part of me is gone.

Daryl informs me the bow might be able to get fixed, I tell him not to bother with it. He says he can help me brush up with the crossbow, I reply with "okay" even though I do not find it in myself to care as much as I should.

Carl makes an attempt to break me free of myself. He is sorry, he says. He does not state what for, but I already know: not being himself, trying to just drag me around town and assuming I don't understand when I lived the same life. His pinkie finds mine. I nod. _Yeah. Okay._

Payton asks me what's wrong when I start walking away with my disfigured bow. I say that I just want to read because I never did finish Of Mice and Men, and that makes the pressure in my head even bigger.

I'm tired and want to sit down. When I reach the cell deemed as my own, I kick my bow into the corner and rip my quiver from my back. I plop down on the bottom bunk that is not too uncomfortable, considering it was built from an inmate. My right leg shakes as I shift the weight on that foot so I can bounce on my toes. I crave to bite my fingers because there is a lot swirling around in my head at the moment, and I need a release. Bandages from almost-healed palms prohibit me; however, and if there was ever a way to break a bad habit, I guess this is it. Usually I run to my bow when I have an urge, but it is like _that_ now;_ that _as in dead, _that _as in useless.

Everyone is telling me that it can be fixed, possibly, but there is no chance I can put the pieces together when the bow was only a piece of me itself.

I dig out Of Mice and Men from my backpack. The last time I read I did not mark the page, so I skim through the book, trying to look for words I recognize. All I remember is that the dog died because it was old and couldn't help it. I wish dying from being aged was still probable; but after experiencing my friends being apart by teeth and bullets, it is hard to imagine.

Growing up with early Sunday mornings, and blue dresses, and church bells, and my mom's soft voice as she contributed to the chorus of people around me saying "Amen", I was taught that you go somewhere when you die. Mostly it was about a good place, but there was a bad place, too; always is.

The point was not to be afraid of death because everyone faces it, and wherever you may end up in some afterlife, it would at least be _somewhere. _I see the dead now; I see the people who I've lost, the people I killed, the people that maybe could have been helped – they are everywhere. Everyone comes back, that is the real point, and they don't go _somewhere else_, they stay here. They stay in the same place where they die, and then they are trapped in some body that isn't even them anymore.

So when Morgan said that he didn't believe anymore, and I told him I didn't know, I might have actually been lying to myself because I see it every day.

The root of my uneasiness is that I am starting to not be sure that God is real.

Or if he ever was.

Maybe that is why I was told he died.

* * *

The night passes. It's a new day.

I don't wake up and immediately have a break down because I think I'm in another place, so it's already better than yesterday's dawn, yesterday's oxygen, yesterday's dreams – I'm _here _today. Not in a beige room at a house that reeks of worn out cigarettes and consuming alcohol. Just here. Always here.

This is supposed to be home now.

"How'd this even happen?" I look up from my book that is helping to keep my mind steady. We're still in our cell because today is a slow day filled with grown-up talk and trying to figure out what the next move is, nothing for us to really be a part of. Payton is standing, holding the bow with a snapped string.

My eyes go back down to the book sitting in my lap, I turn the page. "A walker, what else?" I reply with a bland voice.

"I don't know . . ." She props the bow against the chair in the corner. Payton takes a long step towards me, sliding. "I got all of my knives stuck in a tree once." I eye her with pulled in eyebrows, she takes a seat next to me on the mattress. "I had three knives at the time but it still screwed me over. I was just learning, and I left camp to go practice my aim on the never ending Georgia trees."

I close my book that I had been holding up with a thumb, commenting, "Bark is tougher than it looks,"

"Yeah, turns out it's a bitch, too." she adds. "A group of biters were passing through and I couldn't get any of my knives unstuck. Luckily Michonne was well aware of my stupidity, so she was there to help, but I am pretty sure she already found me as an annoying kid, so that just made it even worse."

I snort, shaking my head and remembering a "_welcome"_ mat, the crunch of potato chips, a snapshot of the smiling Grimes', and a hunched-back, rainbow cat that is just "too damn gorgeous" to leave behind.

"Michonne is okay." I tell Payton, surely. "I want you to stay . . . and – and I think I want her to, too."

"Then I will – I can't speak for her, though."

"Okay."

"You're just so quiet sometimes . . . I don't know what to say."

I sigh. _"Me either."_

* * *

Rick, Daryl, and Hershel head out to meet up with the Governor at some designated location. Andrea appeared yesterday just when we thought that we were not going to see her anymore. Her and Rick drew up a plan, a boundary line, a negotiation, a way out of this . . . She then left, saying she'll bring the Governor the next day, which is today, and right now three of my people just drove away.

I have my doubts, of course I do; I am one of the few who actually saw the Governor face to face. He was going to execute us even though Maggie screamed out the position of the prison, despite every part of her saying not to.

I don't think he is a man of negotiating.

But I still think of Andrea, the one person that is most likely holding me back from burning the town to the ground as it sits, and recollect the farm memory of calling her all those names after she shot Daryl. It took me about a month at best to apologize and that was when walkers were knocking at our door.

If it took me that long for me to admit to Andrea that I was sorry for the slip of a tongue, I do not want to know how long it would take me to find it within myself to kill her.

Even if she were to have a gun to my head.

* * *

There is an agenda today and it starts at the top of an ammo bag.

Not counting those outside the fences, all of the people that matter are here; and it is okay, it is _good. _The kids work on pistols, adults take on the bigger guns; we're pretty quiet for the most part, loading bullets and muttering to each other every so often.

The task is not really that hard for me as I think it would have been in earlier days, and that is either because my hands are getting better or I am just getting used to the injury. It could be both, could be one. Hershel had checked up on my palms before he left this morning, said that the bandages could be taken off the next day or so. I haven't seen them yet because I always look away when they're unraveled, or when I am changing the bandages. I don't see them because I'll remember, and it is the same reason why I wear long sleeves in warm weather, and yank my shirt on as quickly as I can when I dress in the morning. My palms will most likely scar as my arms and I will have to look at them; I still have yet to accept those parts of me.

Unwelcomed guests stick out like sore thumbs and while no one acknowledges it, it is very apparent when Daryl's brother crosses the threshold. I finish up the gun I was loading. Shells fall into place and the pistol clicks loudly. The air is a bit rough to breathe, nothing really new, though. Not with _him_ living here, or the Governor, or the walkers stumbling over each other in the yard, or my faith that may have turned cold. Just a bunch of shit piled up, a lot of paperwork in the office.

But contrary to Merle's belief, killing people is more than doing a job, more than filling out words on a sheet of paper, so maybe you'll get promoted and will not have to do it anymore. It is not paperwork.

If it was everyone would do it; and it would be accepted, it would be okay.

Glenn calls Carl to him and hands a box of bullets off to the boy, "You stash these at the loading dock, alright?"

My eyes are already up so Glenn does not have to search for my attention. Our eyes collide and he speaks, "River, put more up on the catwalk," He holds out an ammo box to me. I reach across the table to take it, hearing some of the bullets inside rolling around as the box is passed between Glenn and I. Bullets are small but it can only take one to kill you.

I trail behind Carl's shadow, heading towards the exit with him. Forgetting about the elephant in the room, forgetting about stuffing guns with what really makes them dangerous -

"If anyone gets pinned down," says Glenn, "we need to make sure that they have plenty of ammo." I understand the mind to the madness of Glenn's ammo shuffle. He is in charge whenever Rick is away, whether it be physically or mentally, and I do not mind it. I trust Glenn, and I trust Rick, and I trust that whatever we do is with intentions to work.

Glenn informs us that he will go work on the cage outside. I guess it is due to be decked out in some kind of armor.

"What we should be doin' is loadin' some of this firepower in a truck and payin' a visit to the Governor."

I freeze with one foot on a step leading to the outside world. Everyone else seems to pause with their tasks as well because although we knew he was going to open his mouth eventually, we were still hoping he would not at all.

Merle adds to his argument, "We know where he is right now . . ."

"And he knows where we are, too." Payton speaks up from the table; she grips the edges of it. "Doesn't make much of a difference,"

"Better than rollin' over by stayin' in here. Figured you'd know a thing or two 'bout that since you ran outta those Woodbury gates so fast, even left a member of your group behind."

I see Payton hold onto the table tighter. She hisses through curly black hair that has since fallen into her face, _"Asshole."_

"Whoa!" exclaims Merle. "Language, kid . . ." He jabs a thumb my way and my stomach starts to twist itself into a knot, giving off the feeling it does when unwanted attention is brought to me. "Guess that's where your little Princess over there got her mouth from."

My jaw clenches, and I want to yell some kind of curses at him because it's my voice and it doesn't matter anymore. But Carl turns and grabs my arm, and it just brings me back to Earth.

_"He's asking for it . . ." _I mutter for only him to hear.

_"I know."_

I don't pull away because the boy is right and I would just be giving Merle what he wanted.

Michonne makes an effort to help clear the air, "We told Rick and Daryl that we'd stay put."

Merle did sit down and shut up for a little while after Rick, Hershel, and Daryl departed. I think Daryl had a talk with him before, but I am not sure; there is always talking when it comes to Merle Dixon.

"I've changed my mind, sweetheart," he tells Michonne. _Of course he did. _"Bein' on the sideline with my brother out there – ain't sittin' right with me."

Yeah, and it doesn't quite sit fine and dandy with us, either. They're our people, too; _my people, too. _But we have to stand on the "sidelines" and take it because the whole operation could go down in flames in a blink if we're not careful. Quite frankly, Merle, I don't care about your one problem when the rest of us are not complaining.

I'm tired.

Glenn explains – or tries, I guess because Merle usually does whatever the hell he wants, anyhow – why we need to stay put. A thousand things could go wrong, too many to think of because it is all random. They could be taken hostage, or hurt, or killed, or worse. There is a worse to being dead because someone can either be undead, or we don't know if they're even dead and instead just assuming because they never came back from that one run.

Everyone had to assume when Merle forced us to give up everything. Carl had to.

I don't want him to have to. I want him _to know._

Merle says that they will go wrong. I turn away because I'm done listening to him.

"My dad can take care of himself." Carl informs him, I can tell he is beginning to grow as annoyed as I am.

"Sorry, son, but your dad's head could be on a pike real soon."

That's it. I spin around so fast that I almost make myself dizzy, almost trip over my limbs – but I don't. I rush at Merle so fast I don't even feel myself move until I'm in his smug face, and everyone is telling me what I shouldn't do.

I'm sick of holding it all in. If Merle can say whatever, why can't I?

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" I scream at him even though we're right _here_ and there's a baby somewhere in the cell block. "Do you ever think – ever – ever use your head?!" My voice is dying out. Glenn yanks me back.

My voice has found it's normal pitch again, cracking, _"Don't say that to him."_

I know that I stooped down to Merle's level and he wanted me to blow up, but I can't find it in myself to recognize it, or give myself a reason to care.

If you can't beat them, join them.

Right?

* * *

Wrong.

Becoming the monster does not make you feel better, it numbs you. It makes all of the bad elements seem irrelevant for a little while until you come crashing back down to Earth, and there is no soft landing when you fall from grace. Walkers are still in that numbing sort of "blissful" stage because, hey, you're invincible. They can take rounds to the chest and only die with a clean puncture to the brain, shutting the operation down; falling, down, down, down . . .

From what I have seen, they don't quite feel pain either because they keep lashing out until the job is done.

Must be one hell of a drug.

Sometimes, I wish I could muster up the courage to become invincible so I would not have emotions shoved down my throat; feelings stealing my oxygen because it rattles me so badly. Sometimes, I wish my friends could fall and I can be a version of "okay" when I see it. Sometimes, I wish I could sleep.

But if there is one thing I learned, it is that nothing good comes out of being gone. Nothing good comes out of being quiet so you can hear the thoughts in your head, even if they aren't all good. Nothing good comes from living slow, and being cold under a winter coat because you just can't seem to settle down and stop shaking, and slamming the door in your best friend's face because you know they're right, and lying to Daryl when there is no point because he already _knows _and now he'll just draw closer, and joining the chaotic and the undead because they'll never love you like the people you shoved away.

I should not join Merle because he already gave me constant reminders of his presence, and as I pace the catwalk with a box of bullets, I stop for a second to fist the chain-link swallowing me, staring down one of the white, stiff reminders. _Bandages._

Soon, they'll go away just so I can cover up whatever markings are left with something lighter. _Soon._

I heard a single gunshot from the cell block earlier and I ran to see a mess of limbs attached to people I knew, and Merle tangled up within it, and Beth holding a gun, and the smell of lead, and a cloud of gun powder. No one looked shot and Glenn shouted at me to go back outside, so I scurried off, and now I am still out here because I am afraid to go back in, and because Glenn has never yelled at me before.

The door connecting the cell block to the catwalk is propped open, and it doesn't surprise me much when Merle saunters out of the cell block that is tinted in gray. They must have gotten pissed at him and threatened to lock him in like one of those zoo animals again; I remember how he pressed against the bars and took long strides back and forth like a tiger. He hated the whole idea, but I only hated that he could still open his mouth, words spewing out.

He stands next to me, rests the tip of his "knife hand" in a groove in the fence, I am holding on to the chain-link with a handicapped limb. I look down at the empty courtyard; walkers are quiet in the field, they can't smell us from here.

"You did that yourself," I start talking, "your hand?"

He says he did.

"In Atlanta, they did go back for you; I know you thought I was lying." I breath in harshly, kick at the fence and it wiggles between my fingertips. "I wasn't lying."

Merle tells me that he knows, Daryl told him apparently.

I shake my head, can feel some of the anger bubbling even though I am fighting to keep it down. "Are you even on a side?" I ask because the lines are blurred and he's been on both teams – on mine now – but he still isn't amounting to one of us in my book. "Or do you just – just play on your own team, and get a kick out of watching everything else turn to shit?"

He laughs a laugh I hate because it makes me feel like less of a person than I am. "That's funny, princess."

I move away, giving myself a boost by pushing from the chain-link. "Don't call me that."

"Fine, kid, Rachel – whatever the hell your name is – "

"It's River."

"Yeah, yeah, can't forget it . . ." _You just did. _"I'm only here 'cause of my baby brother."

"Well, you just missed him." I swing my arms. "And he's wrapped around your finger, so you can do what you want; that's why you're here."

Merle turns. "You don't know what you're talkin' about – "

I'll meet him halfway with that one because I don't know every detail of Daryl before the Atlanta bombs, but I do know that his mom died in a fire, his dad drank too much, and Merle basically raised him, so that is why his jerk of a brother matters so much.

I know half, which is why I interrupt, "My dad was an asshole, too."

And for once, Merle just shuts up.

"Why'd you say that stuff to Carl? You don't even know him."

His gaze is blank. "I don't know . . ."

"Well, think about it; figure it out – whatever you need to do." My feet start moving to the exit.

"Just leave _us _out of it."

* * *

My people come back; and I guess it is kind of sad that the party in my head is thrown because their hearts are still beating. Seeing someone is not just randomly bumping into them anymore, it is a confirmation that Mr. Death didn't knock at their door . . . yet. I hope he doesn't visit me soon.

_Don't sweat it, kid._

Rick ushers everyone inside once the vehicles are parked. He calls some type of meeting once he steps through the archway that splits up the cells and kitchen. Everyone with a pulse – even Merle – gathers around; Carl and Payton side up to me because they're my friends, and I should be accepting of them. I am; though, and I only have trouble with myself. Rick reaches back into a cell close to his capsule of life – his body – and lifts a rifle from the darkness; it is stained in this warm, honey color. He is stripped of breath for a _tick _of an old clock to pass, looking around at the huddle of souls.

He regains a friend called oxygen to speak. The transition is quick, so the average person would not necessarily notice, but I am not exactly _"normal"._

"So, I met this Governor." Rick confirms, nodding along. I have, too. "Sat with him for quite a while . . ." He shuffles, thinking.

"Just the two of you?" asks Merle. Rick says that it was just them. Merle backs away, telling Glenn that we should have left when the door was open, should have took out the Governor. There's a silent chorus of biting lips and leashing words. It wasn't the right call to interfere with the two leaders, still isn't even when the truth is heard.

Or maybe I just can't agree with the person who had a gun to my head – I don't know . . .

Rick continues because there is a reason he grabbed a gun to talk when there are plenty of other things to hold on to, "He wants the prison. He wants us gone."

I tried to be gone, it didn't work.

_"Dead."_

I'm not ready –

"He wants us dead . . . for what we did to Woodbury."

Merle appears beside Carl, beside Payton, beside me – but I leave the bitterness clawing its way into my heart alone. I realize that I don't want anyone here to die. No one standing on my soil deserves it.

_"We're going to war."_

No, I can't go to war.

I'm only thirteen, I'm only a kid; sometimes my thoughts are too grown up even for me to understand.

I don't want their lives to be taken from me.

I don't want mine to be apart from theirs.

I don't want to join the Governor in this new existing battle.

* * *

**This chapter would have been out a month ago, but my Wi-Fi was out for the better part of June, and I was dealing with some of my own personal issues that have just left me drained. **

**I want to thank everyone who has read, followed, favorited, and reviewed this series. I want to thank those who PM me to talk, or have a question, or just decided to check up on me, even if it sometimes takes me a while to reply. I want to thank the people who read one word and then exited out because at least they gave me a chance. I want to thank the community for making me feel like I belong a little. I truly cherish each and every one of you. **

**I also want to thank the band Twenty One Pilots for being my anchor and helping me through difficult times. I owe so much to music in general. **

**Thank you to anyone who has ever supported me; I am so grateful.**

**My plan is to update every other week, but I hate making promises I cannot keep, so we will have to see about that.**

**I wish you all the best. This journey is far from over. **

**~ Rainy**


	25. Chapter 24: Figuring It Out

**My Wi-Fi hardly works and it takes a long time to get anything done, so that's fun.**

***I do not own The Walking Dead. It belongs to its rightful owner.***

* * *

Chapter 24: Figuring It Out

Every time Hershel cracks the cover of the Bible I am pricked with a dose of uneasiness, followed by hatred for my conscious decision of recognizing slipping faith, and then acceptance because I stopped praying after the first time Dad got beyond wasted, so it doesn't matter. _What a hypocrite . . ._

There has been a lot more praying around the prison since Rick declared war against people who are more evil then the monsters outside, and praying is exactly what the Greene's are doing when I drift into the cell block. All three of them are sitting at a circular, steel table, hands clasped and heads bowed all pretty-like. I was outside with the others – besides, Carol, Merle, and Judith, but I do not see the baby lending a helping hand any time soon. We were moving walkers around, setting traps; all of that war stuff that I really know nothing about. The one thing I am certain of is what is coming, but everyone knows that as well, we just choose not to talk about it.

Praying is a sign, a side effect of being scared.

Hershel notices me and stops, index finger marking his place in the holy text. He says that they were about to start, asking me if I want to join. I feel three pairs of eyes on me and stammering, I decline the offer, and stumble out of the room too quickly for my liking. They do not react much to it; probably used to me being out of my head.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I remember that I smell foul, shirt decorated in a bad splatter paint job of red, and I came back inside to change because I slipped up without my bow, and let one of the biters get a little too close for comfort, but it's fine, _it's fine . . ._

It would not be appropriate to pray in this state.

Entering what once was just _my _cell, I yank at the baggy, bland sweater blanketing my upper half. I pull the material off of me, letting it go _SPLAT! _to the floor, before working another shirt over myself that is not much different than the last. The tips of my fingers brush over the raised lines on my forearms in the process of the exchange, but I ignore it, and then I feel safe because the sleeves reach my bandaged palms. I am supposed to get my bandages off today if Hershel looks at it, but it might get forgotten, like a lot of things.

I am pulling my long hair out from underneath the collar of my shirt when I notice something taped onto the frame of the bunk beds that was not there before. Cautiously, I remove the new object from its post; it feels like a piece of fabric – a pillowcase?

There's a lopsided, run-together message on the maybe-but-probably-a-fragment-of-a-pillowcase:

_"I figured it out, princess."_

* * *

Rick is speaking with Hershel when I return to the kitchen-like area that the Greene's were praying in minutes before. The conversation carrying on between the first person I truly trusted in the new world, and the aging man with too much hope and a pretty farm sounds grown-up-ish, nothing really for my little ears. Yet the note folded over and threaded between my fingers uses endearment that could only be from _one_ person. I need Rick, and I need to talk to him because no more secrets, no more hiding; this is war now.

I show Rick the letter, and I try to explain it the best I can because my words fail me a lot, and he nods even if I don't make sense, and then he's guiding me out into a cold-heat because it is a transitioning season – Spring – and Hershel can only watch all of this because he doesn't have two legs anymore.

Two people. Two people are missing when they were just _here, _and I don't - I don't know what to do with _this._ I look at Rick and it must be a pretty pitiful one because he presses his lips together, fighting through distress, to tell me that we'll find them; or he will, or something. They could not have gone far, everything's small.

Daryl is standing in the courtyard where Rick and I are walking pretty fast – at least I am because Rick's strides are long and two of my quick steps equal one of his normal ones. We walk under my catwalk to get to Daryl, weaving around pillars and hitting different patches of grey shade. The new crossbow I gave Daryl is settled onto his back instead of the other one; Rick has a rifle he's gripping while moving because he's worried, I'm carrying my usual, two knives and a pistol – it is not the same.

Rick says something about a deal being off – I don't know about what – but Daryl claims it was the right call; more adult talk I should not be mixed up in. I tuck the torn section of a pillowcase into my back pocket. Daryl is doing his hunter examining thing, squinting as his eyes travel from Rick to me. "What's wrong?"

Rick is breathing hard and I am unsure what kind of lines I have in this dialogue. Right when I begin to doubt my choice of silence, Leader Rick takes over, calming me to an extent, "We can't find Merle or Michonne."

Merle is one thing, but Michonne is another entirely. Payton is still here, and I can't explain to her that one of the few people left on this Earth that she cares about on a deeper level is missing. I don't understand my former best friend's every layer, I can admit to that, but I can recognize the panic that settles when one of the only beings that would miss you is missing.

I come closer, reaching back for the note in my pocket. "They've gone." I announce. I hold out Merle's message, _"Here,"_

Daryl takes it cautiously, unfolding it and his eyes dart around as he reads. I change up how my weight is distributed, stretching out my hands; Rick taps on his gun. Daryl then gets this doe-eyed look; he jerks his head to the open door that leads to what lies within the walls.

_"Come on."_

* * *

Daryl takes us to a part of the prison that I have never ventured into before. I want to explore the prison and be friends with it as I am with the woods, but it is not safe. Like a maze this place plays on the fear of getting lost.

I also guess I knew that the friendship would not work out the moment T-dog pushed me away because there was a mouth-sized hole in him. When the reason for Lori to smile and rub her stomach was finally available to us all, but no one was smiling anymore.

"He was in here," Daryl announces, referring to where he talked to his brother last, and the three of us travel underneath the archway of the stained door hanging wide open on its hinges. The room itself looks like a boiler room of sorts; Rick and Daryl appear familiar with the new space, so I try to be as well. "Said he was lookin' for drugs . . . said a lot of things, actually."

It clicks inside of my brain then because I know what it is like to have an addiction of some type, and hide way, and lie about everything, perhaps even down to the "I love you.".

I push past the other two adults, "He was stalling."

Moving around a rectangular, steel box with a bunch of switches and dials on it, I make an attempt to follow Merle's trail because he was up to something, _always something . . . _He said that he figured it out, and I never actually bothered to come up with what unsolved riddle was rolling around in his head, and I should have because I basically told him to do whatever the hell he pleased, just to not bother us anymore.

Daryl informs Rick that Merle predicted that Rick would change his mind. About what? I don't know. I think I might want to and my mouth opens to ask a question that I may not even get or like the answer to, but it snaps back shut when my green eyes – which are squinty and focused – brush over something on the floor.

That something is rough and suffocating, a sack, and I remember when Merle pressed one over my head.

I get a wave of leather clogging up my noise and a picture of angel wings staining my vison. Daryl passes my still body, holding the crossbow in his left hand; with the free hand he picks up the evidence, confirming that the two individuals we're searching for mixed up in this spot, the exact place where the soles of my boots are touching.

And I am kicking myself because I really should have been more clear with who I consider a part of the group. Michonne is_ good,_ and Payton –

Dammit, Merle.

Rick starts marching off and I play some follow the leader right after the man. He is going to look for Michonne and Merle.

_"You can't track for shit." _Daryl states, siding up to me as we move towards the exit.

"Then the both of us."

Wait, I can –

Daryl shakes his head, his dark, shaggy hair sticking up in multiple directions, "Nah, _just me."_

_Daryl._

He places his figure between Rick, me, and the door, back turned to the outside. "I said I'd go, and I'll go." He doesn't want any room for argument and I feel bad because I'm always chasing after him, always giving him hell . . . "Plus, they're gonna come back here; you need to be ready."

I suck in a shaky breath. Daryl swipes a hand over the crown of my head, brushing some messy strands of hair back into place. His bottom lip tucks into the upper one once he pulls away; no smile, just held there. He looks to Rick.

_"You're family, too."_

Daryl pushes out of the room, and I let him go just like when I allowed him to disappear into the woods with his brother when he had a choice between us or him.

* * *

Rick rounds up what is left of everybody in a boxed off area nestled under the catwalk. He looks nervous, anxious, head down and breathing tight, but so am I. I peeled back the bandages on my hands that I don't really need anymore, and I'm digging into my cuticles with my fingernails. They bleed, it is a relief.

Rick and I, we're both bearing the weight for whatever needs to be said, and I tried to get Payton to pinkie swear to me that she wouldn't get mad, but she refused to because I could not explain. I guess it was stupid of me to assume because that is Carl and I's thing, but I am just trying to let another person into my life that I can lean back on instead of looking up at.

I sit mashed between Payton and Carl on a steel bench. Hershel and Beth are on the other side; Carol is at the other bench, holding Judith. Maggie and Glenn stand. My leg bounces roughly on the asphalt, Carl touches me to stop. Our eyes lock under the brim of his hat, but I have to rip mine away because his father needs to say it. I pull my jacket more up over my shoulder blades; consider zipping it up but it would be too much of a distraction.

It is unusually cold today.

Someone presses the 'play' button in Rick's mind. He begins, "When I met with the Governor, he offered me a deal."

I flick my head up because I don't know about this, and I am supposed to be helping out Rick here, supposed to be in on it. But he just turned all of the guns right back on himself, and all I can do is listen for the gunshot.

"He said – he said he would leave us alone if I gave him Michonne."

_Oh._ Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh . . . That's from the grown-up talk earlier, the conversation between Daryl and Rick that was vague because I was there. It's not grown-up talk anymore, no, and it's ringing through my ears crystal clear. Perhaps it never was grown-up talk; though, because I kind of suck at being a kid.

Rick says that he was going to do it, give up Michonne, but then he decided he could not, he would not. But now Merle took her because the deal is still on in his mind, and Daryl went to stop his brother, and it could very well be too late for everything.

And Payton – well, Payton . . . everything she had for Rick crumples right on the spot, and the worst part is I can see it in her eyes. Although her eyes are a dark brown, they appear stormy, overcasted with something she feels deeply inside instead of on the surface like it usually is.

She stands. "You can't do that, _no – "_

Rick's eyes look really soft compared to her fierce ones. He speaks gently, "I know."

"Then how could you just – "

Rick agrees, "I was wrong not to tell any of you . . . _and I'm sorry."_

The thing is, Rick knows Payton might blowup, he is well aware any of us might get mad. He knows, and he is torn down, and sinking low to the ground, and his voice is gentle, and he bows his head, and he's sorry. Sorry doesn't fix what's wrong, and he knows that, too, but it wouldn't stop him from feeling it.

"'Sorry'?" Payton echoes Rick's words back to him. She raises her arms high, slaps them back down to her thighs. Her eyes squeeze shut for a moment and I watch her hair that never quite unravels from itself fall into her face. When she opens her eyes back up they're glassy. "Wow, gee, thanks; that makes me feel great . . ." She bites down on her lip, bobbing her head. "Sorry. _Everyone is always so fucking sorry."_

Payton Ellington, a girl with frazzled black hair and a personality that I understood completely yet not at all, storms out like the hurricane in her eyes, and I go after her because I find that I cannot just watch anymore.

* * *

When I was ten my mom walked out because the world was too much for her, and then when I was twelve I watched her stumble out of barn doors. I had to leave my dad because I could not see him become dinner for some drooling freaks. I let Dale head into that cow pasture, I couldn't get my legs to work when Daryl floated away slowly into green; I was too tried to argue with him when he left again.

I have come to terms with that when people leave they usually will not be returning, or if they do crawl their way back, they're not the same, at least not the good kind of _same._

Payton takes off into a full-blown sprint across the courtyard when she thinks she is in the clear. I slam my legs into the pavement to keep up; it hurts but I don't care. She panics when she skids to a stop in front of the gate because she does not have the key to get it open, will not break it because whether or not she admits to it, she does give a damn, and there's walkers on the other side.

I grab whatever arm of hers is closer to me. She tries to shove me off, but I won't let go, and I slide across pieces of gravel when Payton drags me over to the fence. She's screaming.

_"Do you know what it's like to be alone?!"_

Payton whirls us around so fast that it feels like my limbs are intertwined, and she slams my body into the fence, and the chain-link is poking into my flesh because my jacket rose up, and I am lightheaded, and things are moving when they shouldn't be, and my heart is in my ears but I am still cold, and Payton sounds really far away.

_"Do you?!"_

_Yes. _I want to yell the word, push her away, go back into the dark. But I don't do any of that; can't speak. I move one of my hands to place over hers, which is fisted into my dark jacket, pressing me to the tall, flimsy fence. It's really, really strange and an unwanted sensation, but I think I might be scared of Payton because she looks really tall right now, but even forming the sentence in my head doesn't echo through my skull right.

I lean away when Payton removes my hand from her own. She reaches for something and then that hand gets really cold, then the other, and I see skin marked with little lines instead of white bandages. "Jesus, River, you don't even need those anymore . . ."

A geek jumps on me, but it's on the other side of the fence, so I only kind of feel it. It bites down on a lock of my hair and I don't know what's in my eye, but it feels broken when I dare myself to look at Payton. She spins me back the right way round, my hair stays between the walker's rooting teeth, ripping out when I am moved.

Payton uses the knife in her hand to stab the freak through the fence. It goes still, slouching against the chain-link. _She – she cut my bandages off._

That wasn't for her to do.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my jacket. My bow's string is snapped and I'm afraid.

"You said that you'd stay," I say, my voice sounding a little bit like I am dangling over a ledge.

Payton turns, the hurricane still swirling in her coffee eyes. "You said that Rick was a good man."


End file.
